


The Placement of Angels

by dixiehellcat



Series: Wordsmith [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: BAMF Pepper Potts, BAMF Tony Stark, BFFs, F/M, Female Friendship, Gen, Girl Power, Iron Man 1 mostly compliant, Male-Female Friendship, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Team Pepperony, despite what tags may lead you to believe, less canon compliant as we go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-06-08 13:02:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 27,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15243954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dixiehellcat/pseuds/dixiehellcat
Summary: A version of Iron Man 1 that asks the simple question: What if Christine Everhart wasn't a catty bitch?A rising reporter lands a career-making interview with a billionaire, and it leads to things she never imagined. Yeah, that thing, but other things too. Things like friendship, faith and hope.





	1. Chapter 1

Day or night, Las Vegas wasn’t my kind of place. The city was all glitz, but I knew history; the glitz was stage makeup, a mask that covered the shadows of its past. Come to think of it, maybe it was my kind of place after all.  


I fidgeted and shifted from one foot to the other, trying to work out my excess energy before my target appeared. Looking down at myself, I straightened my blazer and made sure my blouse wasn’t unbuttoned too far. Professional, that was the key, always. The look was my mask, my armor, if you will. When I dressed for work, it felt like putting on a uniform, or a costume, that transformed me from mechanic’s daughter from west Tennessee to sophisticated, crusading investigative journalist.  


This score, if I made it, would be my biggest yet. It might get me the cover of the magazine I worked for, at last. No counting of chickens before they hatched was allowed, though. _Deep breaths, Chrissy_ , I told myself.  


And suddenly there he was, in the middle of a small crowd of security, heading across the front plaza of Caesar’s Palace and past the famous fountains. I took off at an angle; I had to catch him before he reached that limo to have any chance. A dash and a couple of ducks and turns brought me up short between two bulky bodyguards. “Mr. Stark!” I called, pitching my voice to carry but not screech. “Christine Everhart, Vanity Fair magazine. Can I ask you just a couple of questions?”  


A third bodyguard was opening the back door of the limo, but he paused and looked up at me. I pasted on my best toothpaste-ad smile and waved, in an effort to look as harmless and appealing as possible. He said something under his breath to the man about to get into the car, who listened, murmured something in reply, then turned. “Hi!” he said with a smile as bright as the neon lights of the Strip.  


My grin widened. Dammit, I did it. The two lunks facing me moved aside, and I stepped forward till I stood face to face with my target. He was impeccably dressed in a dark suit that probably cost more than my last month’s salary; his burgundy shirt was open at the neck, and his hair was slicked back. Chrissy from Carroll County, meet the great Anthony Stark: CEO of Stark Industries, technical genius, wunderkind, and weapons dealer extraordinaire. “Hi,” I returned.  


“Yeah. Okay, go.”  


No time to relish this victory. On to the real fight, getting a man notorious for his ability to bob and weave around questions to give me some meat for my editors. I hoped a little sucking up might work for starters. “You've been called the Da Vinci of our time. What do you say to that?”  


“Absolutely ridiculous,” he shot back. “I don't paint.”  


Smartass, I thought. No surprise there. Nobody who grew up in America in the past 20 years didn’t know Tony Stark was the king of one-liners. With my buttering-up shot down, I decided to go for the jugular. Time was a-wasting. “And what do you say to your other nickname, the Merchant of Death?”  


“That's not bad. Let me guess... Berkeley?”  


“Brown, actually.” On a full-ride scholarship, but that was neither here nor there. I stared him down, waiting for an answer.  


“Well, Ms. ‘Brown’. It's an imperfect world, but it's the only one we got. I guarantee you, the day weapons are no longer needed to keep the peace, I'll start making bricks and beams for baby hospitals.”  


The response was just too perfect. “Rehearse that much, Mr. Stark?”  


“Every night in front of the mirror before bedtime.”  


“I can see that.” _Shut UP girl, before you blow this chance!_  


“I'd like to show you firsthand,” he smirked. “And call me Tony.”  


I let out a little huff of exasperation. “I’m sorry, Tony. All I'm looking for is a straight answer here!”  


“Okay, here's a straight answer,” he said, and to my surprise, he almost looked sincere. “You know Teddy Roosevelt’s old saying, about speaking softly and carrying a big stick? My old man had a philosophy, too: peace means having a bigger stick than the other guy.”  


“That's a great line, coming from the guy selling the sticks,” I retorted. I admit it, part of the reason I had gone out on a limb to get this assignment was to confront the man who made the weapons currently killing many people around the world. For two years, I had dated a fellow reporter with a lot of war zone experience, and Simon’s stories combined with my liberal education had left me with a profound distaste for warmongers of any sort.  


One corner of his mouth quirked, and I wondered briefly if that million-watt smile with which he had greeted me was as fake as mine. Right now though, he seemed to almost be enjoying our little sparring match. “My father helped defeat the Nazis. He worked on the Manhattan Project. A lot of people, including your professors at Brown, would call that being a hero.”  


“And a lot of people would also call that war-profiteering,” I fired back, getting wound up in spite of myself.  


Stark blinked at that, and abruptly seemed a bit irritated. I would have bet that line about his daddy being a war hero shut most reporters down on the spot. He took off his tinted glasses and met my eyes for the first time with his. They were huge and dark, and I could see how, if half the stories that swirled around him were true, he had charmed more people into his bed than a Tennessee anthill had ants. He took a step toward me, going all alpha-male and getting into my personal space, but I refused to back up. “Tell me,” he said, his voice a sharp snap, “do you plan to report on the millions of people whose lives we've saved by advancing medical technology, or kept from starvation with our Intelli-crops? All those breakthroughs? Military funding, honey.”  


That did stop me, though I refused to let it show. I had done hours of research, but precious little of the information I had found had referred to the projects he was talking about! “Wow. Have you ever lost an hour of sleep in your life?” I finally managed.  


“I'd be prepared to lose a few with you,” he returned with a little arch of one eyebrow. Oh, he had to go there. And the hell of it was, I halfway thought I would too, given the chance. Yes, he stood for everything I opposed, and yes, everything I’d heard about his glib manner with the press was true, but you know what else was true? Tony Stark was HOT. Hotter than the Vegas night, hotter than any photo or youtube video or breathless description. In fact, toe to toe with him, so close I could almost feel the heat from his body, I had to mentally quote the Queen of Sheba when she met King Solomon: _Behold, the half was not told me_. “You’re good. This is my A material, my best stuff. You’re tough to impress.”  


“I’ve done my homework,” I decided to take the chance and be honest with him. “I have to. I have a reputation to build. All those canned responses you toss out at the jackasses from the LA Times?” I tapped my temple. “I’ve got ‘em all up here. You want to impress me, hot rod, you’ll have to try harder than that.”  


“Hot rod?” He laughed out loud, and wonder of wonders, it sounded like genuine amusement. “I like you. Tell you what, how in-depth do you want to go with this?”  


I didn’t hesitate. ”As deep as you’re willing to take me.”  


Tony gestured toward the limo door still being held open. “Get in, then. I guarantee I’ll show you sides of me that the jackasses from the LA Times have never, ever seen. Consider that an iron-clad promise.”  


I got every drop of the double meaning that dripped from his words, but I got into the limo anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first MCU fic, my first fic in years, and my first attempt at posting here on ao3. (actually, my second, since the first try just got eaten. grr.)
> 
> For several years I've been caring 24/7 for my mom with dementia. We just moved her into long-term care and I'm reclaiming my life. Haven't been to a movie in what, six or seven years, so I blithely tromp off to see...Infinity War. Despite having seen NONE of the previous films. LOL. NO idea what's going on but I strap in and hold on, and am thoroughly hooked. I decide I've got to find out how these folks got into this mess, and I'm starting with the hella hot guy in the red armor. :D (That was 8 or 9 weeks ago, and I'm 2 movies shy of the complete MCU deep-dive binge now.)
> 
> Watching Iron Man 1 for the first time, I found myself intrigued by the character of Christine. She's clearly smart, driven, and reads people well, so why not use those skills instead of getting into a verbal pissing match with Pepper? Only a few different lines of dialogue took me down a whole 'nother path, which mushroomed into my head into a series of at least a half-dozen stories that roughly follow the MCU timeline, but veer farther from canon as they progress.
> 
> Feedback coveted! :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chrissy interviews Tony, drinks too much champagne, and hitches a ride home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos and feedback! Looks like I will be chasing Chrissy on her journey; hope you come along.
> 
> Full disclosure: one of Tony's lines from this chapter was lifted from an RDJ interview, thereby proving once again that they are the same person. LOL. (That was the same interview where I discovered RDJ wrote Tony's iconic 'too much to ask for both' speech.)

“Champagne?” Tony asked. 

The back of the limo felt as big as a living room, with two broad bench seats that were more like expensive leather sofas, and a refrigerator that looked fully stocked. My interviewee lounged across from me and brandished a big bottle of bubbly. _Why not_ , I thought. It wasn’t like I was driving; I’d be Uber’ing back to my room at Caesar’s after I saw Stark off at the airport, anyway. “Love some, thanks.”

He pulled two flutes from a storage bin and handed me one. Crystal, no less. No plastic for a Stark! With the ease of long practice, he popped the cork and poured me a generous helping. I took a sip. It was good, I supposed. Being raised in a teetotalling family, I hadn’t even tasted alcohol until I went to college, and while I’d developed a fair tolerance, I didn’t have the evolved palate to match. 

Another sip gave me a moment to organize my thoughts. Small talk might put the man at ease, but hell, he’d been running the press ragged ever since he could walk, literally. Besides, this was the only chance I was going to have to ask him questions, in an environment where distractions were at a minimum and it should be hard for him to misdirect me. So I plunged right in. “You were talking about your family’s corporate philosophy. Could you expand on that a little more?” While I spoke, I pulled out my phone and started the audio recorder app.

Tony barely spared it a glance when I laid it on the seat beside me. He was used to his every word being recorded, too, I was sure. “People always say it’s better to be feared than respected. I just don’t see why there’s this dividing line. Is it too much to ask for both? They also say that the best weapon is the one you never have to fire. I respectfully disagree. I prefer the weapon you only have to fire once. That's how my dad did it, that's how America does it, and it seems to have worked out pretty damn well so far.”

Ooh, new stuff. I had to suppress the urge to wiggle like an eager puppy. I had at least three possible article titles, right there. My excitement was tempered, however, by the self-satisfied look on Tony Stark’s handsome face, and the knowledge that the champagne I was drinking and the limo I was riding in were bought with his blood money. “The more things change, the more they stay the same, is that it?” I shrugged. “In that case, no harm in recycling your father’s old material.”

His expression changed; in fact, he almost winced, and slouched where he sat. “Oh, yeah, I’ve never had an original thought in my life.” 

That gave me pause. He sounded…oddly bitter, and for all my own conflicted emotions in the moment, my heart responded instinctively. “Oh, I call bullshit on that. You may not be my favorite person, but I have to give credit where it’s due. It’s only fair. Tony Stark. At age four, you built your first circuit board; at age six, your first engine; and graduated Summa Cum Laude from MIT at seventeen. And you sit over there and run down your intellectual prowess? Or try to make me think you are, anyway? I’m not buying it, hot rod. Besides, chicks dig big brains, which you of all people ought to know.”

He pushed himself more upright and looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. “Chicks dig other big things too,” he shot back.

“Not all of us are size whores. Oops, did I say that out loud? Must be the champagne.” _Dear Lord, my goose is cooked_ , I thought in horror, just before Tony threw his head back and burst into laughter. 

“I knew I liked you,” he managed after a solid minute or so, when his howls had tapered to snickers. 

My composure was finally shattered. I felt myself go red and then pale. “I, I’m so sorry, Mr. Stark, I—this isn’t my usual, um—”

“Stop, stop!” He waved the champagne bottle, still practically giggling. “You forget, this isn’t my first ride around the block without training wheels. Do you have any idea how many reporters I’ve eviscerated in my life?” He paused as if he actually expected me to answer. “Damn. You said you’d done a ton of research, I was hoping you might know. I don’t! Completely lost count. I do know most of them had no sense of humor. Took themselves way too seriously. At least you’re entertaining. If that’s where this stuff gets you, here, have some more.” Before I could protest, he reached out, his grip only a little unsteady, and refilled my glass. After toasting me with the bottle, he started to pour himself a refill too, then evidently decided my outburst deserved more than that and took a swig straight from the neck before settling back into the seat and kicking his feet up beside him.

“To get back to your question,” he said in between more slugs of champagne, “in some ways, yes, the more things change, the more they stay the same. However, despite the shout-out in it to my old man, that last bit I gave you is all mine. Just wrote it the other night for a presentation I have to give tomorrow, in fact. It’s my pitch, you know? it’s me in a mall selling you a new set of pots and pans, but instead I have to make you believe buying weapons from me is good for America. And it is, because Stark Industries designs the best and makes the best.”

I was still shaky, but paradoxically, my tongue having gotten away from me seemed to have finally let Tony relax. Thank heavens I was the only one who’d be hearing the recording of this mess. “You said in some ways things stay the same,” I said carefully. “How would you say they have they changed since your father’s tenure?”

“The tech, obviously,” he replied. “We just patented this new technology, repulsors…” With that he was off and running, talking about electrons and muons and plasma. I tried to listen, I really did, but after a few minutes he started to laugh again. “I lost you. You’re hacking through the tall grass back there someplace.” He swung the near-empty champagne bottle back and forth like Indiana Jones’ machete.

“Sorry,” I said honestly. “I love science stuff. If I’m honest, I’d sooner work for Popular Science than Vanity Fair, but not much chance of that,” I pointed to myself, “because girl. And yes, you did lose me, but that’s partly the champagne and partly,” I pointed to him, “the genius.”

“Yeah, well,” he shrugged my implied compliment off, then glanced out the limo’s tinted windows and sat up straight, swinging his feet down to the floor. “Hey, we’re here. Time flies with good company. I haven’t had this much fun being interviewed in years! Thanks, um…”

“Christine,” I supplied. “I’m glad it wasn’t much of a trial for you. I enjoyed it too.” I had, much to my quiet shock and slight chagrin.

The limo glided to a stop beside a sleek jet with the Stark Industries logo on its side. The driver slash bodyguard came around and opened the door. Tony put out his hand as if to shake mine. “Do you live here in Vegas?”

“No, I’m staying at Caesar’s but I’m based out of LA.”

“Right, right, the jackasses at the Times, I remember now.” His hand closed around mine, but not in a position to bid farewell, and those bottomless dark eyes made dirty promises I was pretty sure he knew how to keep. “Want a ride home?”

“Whose home?” I breathed.

“Depends on you, honey.”

My hand closed around his, and I let him help me out of the limo.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The interview continues. Chrissy lets slip the secret of her past, discovers a little more to Tony than she expected, and makes a decision.

_I shouldn’t be doing this_ , a voice kept saying in my head, the whole time I walked across the tarmac. My legs felt unsteady, from the champagne, or the nerves, or the sheer charisma coming off the man who held my hand. More likely, it was all of the above. I was supposed to be working, supposed to be interviewing Tony Stark, supposed to be punching holes in his self-righteous warmongering egotistical self. I wasn’t supposed to be climbing the steps to his private jet, minding my steps so I wouldn’t stumble and embarrass myself more than I already had, en route to, well, an assignation.

It wasn’t like I hadn’t expected this. The initial invite to ride with him to the airport had been fraught with innuendo, after all, and still I had taken him up on it. I know I’m not bad looking, and I use that as a tool. Men underestimate me because I’m blonde and pretty. Tony had. The main difference was, while some men get angry when they realize I’ve played them, Tony had seemed almost delighted by the surprise. And clearly, he still intended to bed me. 

At the top of the stairs, I paused at the jet’s entrance. I silenced the alarm bells in my head, and the voices telling me how unprofessional this was, or how sinful. I took a deep breath of the warm desert air and looked coolly at the situation. Tony wanted something, and I wanted something. He wanted some casual sex; I wanted some killer quotes. We could both get what we wanted. _I’m a grown-ass woman_ , I told the inner ruckus, _and I am making this choice. Shut up._

“Hey, you okay?” Tony’s voice brought me back to reality. He actually looked a little concerned. Of course he was; it wouldn’t look good to have it known a reporter got sick on his plane. Not that that would be the most scandalous thing I’d ever heard about him.

I put my pearly-whites smile back on. “Fine, thanks,” I said, and stepped onto the jet. The interior looked like a small, intimate nightclub, lit by multicolored mini-spots scattered throughout. A galley was perched up front, and along one side wall was a neat bar with a full complement of alcohol. Several seats and a couple of tables occupied the rest of the space I could see. He escorted me to a table, sat me down and handed the bottle we’d emptied to a woman in flight attendant’s uniform. Once we were airborne, the woman returned with more champagne for me, and a bottle of Glenfiddich and a glass for Tony. “Have I driven you to the hard stuff already?” I teased.

“You have no idea how hard,” he smirked as he poured a healthy portion. In the low light, his eyes seemed to shift, from the dark chocolate I’d seen before, to the color now of the Scotch he sipped, but absolutely magnetic in whatever light. “Good whiskey was my old man’s poison of choice.” 

“You take after him in a lot of ways, apparently,” I noted while reaching for my phone to turn my recorder app back on. “A lot of people call him an icon. Do you think that’s fitting? You have a perspective on Howard Stark that nobody else in the world could. What’s your thought—”

“My thought,” Tony interrupted me, “is that I’m tired of talking about Howard. You didn’t come here to talk about him. Stark Industries isn’t his company anymore, it’s mine.” He tossed off the rest of the liquor at once, in several swallows, which as a bonus gave me a leisurely moment to peruse his very nice neck. “He gave me my first drink,” he added unexpectedly. “Wanted to start toughening me up. _Stark men are made of iron_ , he used to say. I was eight.”

I halted with my hand halfway to the table top with my phone. “Wow. I knew you were precocious but that’s kind of ridiculous.” For the first time, I felt a little sympathy for him. It couldn’t have been easy, growing up that way, the son of a legend who died leaving shoes so big the thought of trying to fill them must have been overwhelming. 

After a beat, I resumed my movement. When Tony spied the phone, he rolled his eyes so hard, I nearly spat out the sip of champagne I’d just taken, and giggled out loud. “You have the prettiest eyelashes,” I blurted. “Y’all guys know we girls hate you for that, right? We buy mascara and curlers and all this crap, and y’all are just born with them.”

I realized my mistake the instant I heard myself, and Tony lit up and pounced. “Y’all? What’s this ‘y’all’ thing? Howdy-doo, how’re yewwww…” He raved on, while I looked down into my glass and suppressed the absurd impulse to cry. So much for that rapport I’d been working on. Fucking champagne. The only saving grace was that he didn’t recruit the flight attendants to mock me too. 

After a few moments, a hand appeared in my line of sight, which was narrowed to the area of the table surrounding my champagne glass. “Christine?” His fingers tapped, then snapped. “Yoo hoo? I was just kidding.” 

I had managed to hold back the tears long enough that when I looked up, I was angry. “Yeah. Right. How the hell many times have I heard that used to excuse mean behavior?”

Tony seemed taken aback. “Well, I just hadn’t heard that out of you, you know? Every word you’ve said was perfect middle-America news anchor-ese.”

“And is it any wonder I don’t let that accent out of its cage very often? Southern AND blonde, each of which shaves 50 points or so off my assumed IQ in most people’s minds. Put them together and I guess it’s a wonder I can find my way to the bathroom.” 

He stopped cold and just looked at me. Damn those eyes of his. It felt like he was looking straight down into my soul. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t intend to hurt you. Back there, outside the hotel, I wouldn’t have talked to you for more than thirty seconds if you hadn’t given as good as you got. It’s so rare I get a good verbal fencing match. Whatever I may think of your job, your personal opinions or anything else, one thing’s for sure, you aren’t stupid.”

His demeanor totally changed. He seemed truly startled, and regretful even; odd, considering the way I’d been hammering him with questions. I met his gaze while in the back of my buzzing head I registered that I’d just blown one of the most overused media tropes about him completely out of the water. _‘Tony Stark has no heart’, my ass_ , I thought. I couldn’t use it without laying my own weakness bare, though. I sighed inwardly and let it go. “Thank you,” I said simply. “I appreciate that. Now, speaking of my job, I’d better get back to doing it. There hasn’t been much written about those Stark Industries projects you mentioned earlier, the non-military ones. I’d like to change that. Tell me more about them.”

Well, that took up the rest of the flight. As he got wound up describing his plans and some of the things he got up to in his workshop, I saw another change come over him. He became another person, not the profligate playboy, but a genius with a fire kindling in his eyes. Creating was clearly his love, his happy place. “Now I see where that Da Vinci nickname came from,” I said when he stopped to take a breath and another drink. “After all, Leonardo invented the helicopter hundreds of years before the technology existed to actually build one. I’ll bet you have ideas that far ahead of the curve too.”

“I don’t talk about those,” he retorted, “until I invent the tech to make them.” Now THAT was self-confidence well-deserved…which in turn was really, really sexy. Damn him.

When the jet landed, a limo sat waiting with the burly guy I’d seen in Vegas ready at the rear, holding the door open. “So have you decided?” Tony asked me.

“Decided what?” I frowned.

“Whose home you’re going to.”

I caught my breath. This was my last chance. If I asked to be taken to my apartment, Tony would probably try to persuade me otherwise, but in my gut, I felt he would honor my choice, which is more than I could say for a lot of men, including some I’d dated. If I went with him…my gut said I’d be in for one hell of a ride. “Guess I’ll come with you,” I said. “I really want you to show me that workshop of yours.”

A wicked smile curled his kissable mouth. “Oh, I’ll show you some things.” He handed me into the limo, slid in beside me and slammed the door. “Hit it, Happy!” he called, just before I found out exactly how kissable that mouth of his was.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chrissy goes home with Tony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SMUT ALERT! (though not exactly the way you may be expecting. hehe)

Tony and I made out like teenagers the whole drive. I felt like my brains were oozing out my ear, or more accurately, between my legs. When the limo stopped below a huge white modern building perched on a clifftop, Tony got out, reached in and pulled me out. I put one hand on his solid shoulder to steady myself, and he drew me in for more kisses. His mouth tasted like whiskey and sin, and he smelled like skin musk and motor oil. Whatever product he had used to smooth his hair back had given up the ghost at some point during the last leg of our trip, and now I could see why he used it; in its natural state, his dark hair was unruly, and frankly adorable. I tangled my fingers in it while we kissed. 

“You good, Mr. Stark?” the driver called. 

Tony nudged the door closed with one foot and gave a high sign with his free hand (the one that wasn’t still holding mine). “Night, Happy,” he said. “See you in the morning.”

I wasn’t so drunk and horny that I forgot all my manners. “Thank you!” I called with a look over at the chauffeur. He looked a little surprised; maybe the women Tony brought home didn’t acknowledge him much. I chose not to think about them. Tonight, dammit, he was with me. I intended to enjoy it, and use everything I could glean to write an article that would bitch-slap the competition.

The metal door Tony led me to slid open to reveal an elevator. We got in, he pushed a button, then pushed me against the wall. My legs threatened to go out on me. When the door opened again, though, curiosity and sheer cussedness gave me the strength to follow him out into a living room bigger than my apartment. It was dimly lit, coolly modern, and sported a water feature that tumbled from feet above my head. I paused to admire it. “The last time I saw anything like this was at a five-star hotel in Nashville.”

Tony snorted and tugged at my hand. “We ain’t in Nashville, cornbread.”

He didn’t put on a faux-Southern accent this time, but annoyance still penetrated the buzz of alcohol and arousal that permeated my body. “You said you wouldn’t make fun of me!”

“I wasn’t! I, I just give people nicknames, it’s something I do. You should hear all the things I call my best friend. Platypus, sour patch, sugar bear…”

“Good grief. I guess cornbread isn’t so bad by comparison.”

“Nope. Could’ve been outhouse.”

I tried to swat at him but missed, as he grinned and towed me down a corridor. The walls were hung with huge glass prints of vintage automobiles that snared my attention yet again. “Oooh, a ’67 Shelby Cobra! Sweet.”

That stopped him in his tracks. “You know cars?”

“I know cars. My daddy was, um, a master mechanic.” I flushed, not meaning to let this much about my unglamorous background slip out.

“It’s a good job,” Tony surprised me by saying. “If I hadn’t been born Howard Stark’s son, I’d probably be doing the same.”

“Tony down at the local Ford dealership?” I teased. “Not with that brain of yours, you wouldn’t. Not for long, anyway.” My eyes drifted back to the Cobra. “That’s gorgeous.”

“It’s down in my workshop, just finished restoring it.”

I suppressed a squeal. “That’s right! The famous workshop. You promised you’d show me.”

“No I didn’t. I said I’d show you some things. Not specifically that thing. C’mon.”

My pique was lessened by another hard kiss before we continued down the hallway and into—surprise, surprise—a bedroom, Tony’s obviously, if the vintage car models mounted on the walls were any indication. I spared a moment to swoon over a tiny 1932 Ford Flathead Roadster with a perfect paint job of gloss black and flames. When I dared reach to touch it on its little shelf, I could have sworn I felt a breeze. I pulled my hand back and tried to get my liquored-up brain to line up and cooperate.

Tony laughed. “The shelves have built-in air compression flow. I hate those plexiglass display boxes, they look like ice cubes. This way things are open but it keeps dust off.” He showed me the tiny perforations in the shelf and let me feel the steady flow of air.

“You thought of that,” I marveled. “To keep from having to dust!”

“I don’t dust. Can’t find a French maid’s outfit that flatters my butt.”

“Well, that’s unacceptable.” To suit action to words, I reached around behind him and grabbed a double handful of the aforementioned very nice butt. He let out a yelp, then pulled me to him to unzip and dispose of my skirt. I let go and undid his shirt, pushing it halfway off his shoulders to admire the view. “Damn, you are fine,” I sighed and traced with my fingernails his long neck and muscular shoulders and chest. 

He snorted and looked away. Was that a little shake of his head? He almost seemed—what, embarrassed, abashed? Had he never had sex with somebody who appreciated him for himself? The thought made me incredibly sad for a moment. Maybe that legendary ego was a mask that a very lonely man hid behind. It made me determined that, at least on this night, I would not be that person to him. I reached for his cheek and urged him to look at me again. “I’m not here for Tony Stark’s money and power. That does not do it for me. I’d be just as here for Tony down at the local Ford dealership, with the amazing mind…and the amazing mouth…and those unnaturally beautiful eyes…” I punctuated my words with kisses. “And those hands that are too clever for their own good. Or maybe too clever for my good, I’m not sure. Need more research—”

“Need less talking,” he growled. His hands curled around the backs of my thighs, and with a grunt he lifted me off my feet. We rolled onto his big bed and tumbled around in a tangle for a few moments. I ended up on top of him, straddling his lean powerful hips and grinding while we, yes, kissed some more. He grabbed me and started to roll over—and we both rolled right off the bed. 

Tony let out this demented cackle, and that pretty much destroyed me. We lay in a heap on the floor and laughed together, then hauled ourselves back up, and ditched the rest of our clothing in the process. I lay back and watched him devour me with his eyes. He cupped my breasts and toyed with my nipples, smiling when I gasped and arched into his touch. I wasn’t exaggerating about those hands, so deft and sure. They were not the soft hands of a rich man, but the callused hands of a man who knew labor: yet another of the contradictions that had made such a simple-seeming assignment more complex than I could have imagined.

He was driving me half out of my head with desire—and then we ran into a problem.

“Ohhh, come ON,” Tony groaned. I slid down him and took him in my mouth, condom at the ready, but my best efforts yielded little.

“Welp,” I said finally and let his mostly-limp member slip from my lips, “I used to hear my daddy and his buddies talk about this. Called it whiskey dick.”

Tony screwed his eyes shut and let out a shaky breath. “Tell me you’re not gonna publish this. I’ll--”

“Oh, for God’s sake! It’s nobody’s business you drank too much and couldn’t get it up.” It was also nobody’s business I was the one who suffered as a result, I thought but did not say. I certainly wasn’t about to mention in an article that I had had every intent on sleeping with its subject, until alcohol-induced transient impotence reared its ugly head, or rather, didn’t rear anything. My body was still wound to a fever pitch, but seeing his evident distress started cooling me down. I laid my hand over his on his belly in reassurance. “It’s okay, Tony. Don’t worry about it. I may have to get you to spring for spare batteries for my vibrator, though. Can’t exactly put that on my travel reimbursement form from the magazine.”

His eyes popped open, and I was frankly shocked when he started to laugh. “Oh, no. No no no. Nobody has ever left my bed unsatisfied, and I’m not about to let that start now.” With that, he reared up, pushed me down, and put that mouth and those hands to work. In no time, I was writhing beneath him, moaning and swearing and pulling his hair while he nipped and licked at my core. He slid up my body, sweat on sweat, and his kiss tasted like me now. His fingers slid inside me, and he murmured in my ear how he liked what he felt there, how wet and needy he made me. “Let go, cornbread,” he urged. “I wanna hear that sweet molasses accent. Tell me what you want.”

“Oh god Tony, damn, I, ah—” The slow, steady pump of his fingers accelerated. “Yes, yes, please…” He teased my breasts with his teeth and free hand and I thought I might just explode. “Oh fuck, Tony, stop torturing me, make me come, please, god please—”

“You only have to ask,” he purred. His thumb pressed against me, his fingers curled and thrust, and I shrieked and came apart beneath him. 

When the whirling of my brain eased, I managed to focus on the man lying beside me. He looked as smug as a cat that just got into the milk bucket. I half expected to see him start licking cream off his whiskers. “Hey, Tony?” I breathed.

“Hmmmm?”

“in the morning, when we’re sober? I’ll pay you back for that.”

The twitch of his small smile was the last thing I saw as I dozed off.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chrissy meets Pepper, then writes her article and takes a day off, before tragedy strikes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for the kudos and great feedback! This chapter features the scene that got this whole ball rolling in my head, Chrissy and Pepper's first meeting.
> 
> Just fyi, anything with two sets of colons around it is the contents of an email. (you'd figure that out, I know. lol)

_This is the best bed ever_ , was my first thought. I sprawled on my stomach among the tangle of high-thread-count sheets. One temple ached, but I lifted my head to look around as my brain came online. The big room was barely lit, but I could make out the small forms of the car models on their carefully engineered dust-repelling shelves. That memory from last night made me smile, but the smile faded when I found myself alone in the huge bed.

I started to sit up, then jumped up when what had appeared to be a faintly illuminated wall began turning transparent, while a cultured voice read off the morning weather and surf forecasts. In a moment, I was looking instead at a full-wall window overlooking an amazing clifftop view of the Pacific. It literally took my breath away! I stood and stared, then realized I was naked as a jaybird, so backed up till my knees hit the edge of the mattress. I sat back down, pulled a sheet to me, and stared a little longer, until my stomach interrupted my appreciation of the stunning vista with a loud growl.

Okay, so, find breakfast, and find Tony, not necessarily in that order. I started to hunt around for my clothes. I DID have clothes on when we got into the bedroom, I knew I did. The memory of Tony’s rough hands catching on my hose as he slid my skirt down my hips was crystal clear. So, find my clothes first! Where in the hell were they? 

I finally found my panties half under the bed, on the side we had rolled off, and in one corner I located his burgundy silk dress shirt tossed aside. With those to cover most of my nakey, I headed for his bathroom. The heated floor felt glorious under my bare feet. I washed my smudged makeup off, poured myself a swig of his mouthwash, and went searching. The glass prints of autos in the hallway were a great landmark, and with the sound of the waterfall guiding me, I found my way back to the living room. The place seemed totally deserted. On one wall, I spied a small control box that looked like it might be an intercom. After a few fruitless moments studying the indecipherable controls, I decided to chance poking a button.

“You are not authorized to access this area.” 

The voice sounded like a typical snooty English butler. I jumped a foot or so. “Ack! Sorry. With whom am I speaking?”

“That’s Jarvis. He runs the house,” came another voice from behind me. I spun and found myself facing a red-haired woman.

“A person? Or, not, that voice didn’t quite sound human. An AI? That’s fascinating!” The moments I babbled gave me time to place this person in the research file in my head. “You must be the infamous Pepper Potts.”

A wry half-smile came to her face. “Infamous?”

“Or famous. Anybody who can wrangle Tony Stark as long as you have deserves whichever moniker they want.” I grinned and stepped forward. “I’m Christine Everhart from Vanity Fair magazine. It’s nice to meet you.” Of course, it was ridiculous that I was acting like we had casually crossed paths in an office corridor, when I was standing barefooted in my underwear and her boss’ shirt, especially when she cast a look over me that told me she knew that was his shirt. I looked away from her and my gaze landed on the dry-cleaning bag in her hand. “Oh, that’s where my clothes went!”

“They’ve been cleaned and pressed.” She was so put-together, in her dark skirt suit and white blouse and dark pumps. They suited her, where I feel like a kid playing dress-up in her mama’s closet a lot of the time by contrast. I envied the cool confidence this woman exuded without even trying.

“Thanks so much! You didn’t have to do that.”

“Mr. Stark ordered it.” 

“That’s another thing I’ll have to thank him for, then.” The woman gave me a quizzical look. “Besides the great interview he gave me last night, and…um, I didn’t expect him to be so considerate in bed—” I caught myself before I started expounding on how a drunk one-night-stand had treated me better than guys I’d dated for months. “Sorry, TMI.” Something else crossed her face at that moment, something that broke her cool detachment and stopped me dead. It wasn’t disgust, or anger; it was almost like pain, and I knew. “Oh, shit,” I gulped. “I am so sorry. I didn’t know you and he—oh shit. I never poach on another woman’s turf. I had no idea, please, believe me!”

She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“I didn’t know. Hell, does he know??”

“Know what?”

“That you have feelings for him. Don’t try to lie; your face is like reading a newspaper.”

She got all huffy and defensive then. “I have no idea what you are talking about. I am Mr. Stark’s assistant, nothing else, and if you even think about intimating otherwise, Ms Everhart, you and your publication will be hearing from—”

“Write about that? No! Of course not. That’s nobody’s business.” I started to add that I’d been down this road with Tony the night before, but I didn’t need to dig myself any deeper a hole. “I just want you to know how sorry I am. I would never have come home with Tony if I had had any idea.”

She shook her head and smoothly changed the subject. “There's a car waiting for you outside that will take you anywhere you'd like to go.”

“Great, thank you. Do they need for me to go right now? I’ll only be a minute getting dressed, but I was hoping for a bite of breakfast. Maybe the driver would hit a drive-through for me?”

“It’s Happy, Mr. Stark’s regular driver, and they do that all the time, so I’m sure he would.”

“Oh, I met him last night, I think,” I nodded. “Is Tony around? I wanted to thank him and say goodbye, at least.”

“Mr. Stark has left already. He had a plane to catch; he’s traveling to Afghanistan on military business. That’s confidential, by the way.”

“Of course, he mentioned that he had a presentation to give.” And there I was, back at that thing about Tony that made my hair sit up. “Does that ever bother you?” I asked her suddenly. “That Merchant of Death thing. Even from what little I saw of him unguarded last night, I just feel like there’s so much more he could be doing for the world! I pray someday something happens to show him that.”

For a long few seconds, Pepper Potts was silent, her face showing conflict. When she spoke, though, her words were as calm and measured as ever. “How Mr. Stark earns his living is none of my business. As I said, I’m only his assistant.”

Mentally, I sighed. “Well, let me go get dressed. Thank you again for this.” I started back toward Tony’s bedroom, then added sympathetically, “After all these years, Tony still has you picking up the dry cleaning?”

“I do anything and everything Mr. Stark requires.” She paused as if to say something more, then looked sharply at me and just said, “Will that be all?”

“If you’d just tell—Happy, right?—I’ll be there in just a second, I’d appreciate it. Happy, that’s a cute nickname. I bet Tony stuck that on him, didn’t he? Is that how you ended up being Pepper?” She just looked at me from behind that wall of icy competence. “Right, not my business. Be right back.”

I got home with a bag full of chicken biscuits, which I shared with the kindly ex-boxer who was Tony Stark’s driver, bodyguard, and general man-at-arms, and got several nice quotes about his boss for my article in return. If he had had not one other positive quality to recommend him, I thought as I showered and sat down to start typing, I had to respect Tony for the loyalty he was able to inspire from people as diverse as Happy Hogan and the frighteningly capable Ms Potts.

Before I went to bed that night, I sent the article in, and woke the next morning to an email from my editor that was equal parts DAMN THIS IS AMAZING and HOW THE FUCK DID YOU DO THIS. I acknowledged the first, and channeling my inner Pepper Potts, ignored the second. Having covered myself in glory, I decided I deserved a day off. I called in a favor from a friend in Vegas to get my stuff from my room at Caesar’s; then I went used-bookstore hopping all day and brought home supper from my favorite hole in the wall Cajun restaurant. 

After I ate, I shot off a quick email to my ex. Simon was the BBC’s assistant bureau chief in Kabul, and just for curiosity, I asked what the word in-country was, if any, regarding Tony Stark’s visit there. It was already the next day there, nearly 12 hours ahead of the US west coast, so I figured I'd hear from him soon. 

It sounds strange, I know, being besties with an ex-boyfriend, but Simon was the salt of the earth. Besides, he could get his hands on information no journalist on earth should have been able to access, like the link he had sent me some months before that allowed me to eavesdrop online on most of the US military’s radio communications. I never used anything I learned from it until and unless I had confirmation through more conventional sources, but l spent many evenings quietly listening. With a cup of wine in my hand, I tuned it in.

A convoy was en route to Bagram Air Force Base, the drivers of the various vehicles talking back and forth. It was the usual military jargon, nothing special, until I caught a faint and familiar voice in the background of one transmission. _Is that Tony?_ I thought. Fuck the arrogant billionaire trope; from the cheerful tone I heard, he was more likely trying to entertain the troops he was riding with. A smile crossed my face, just before the first loud BOOMs.

The first instant, I wasn’t sure what had happened. The next instant, I was sure and wished I wasn’t. 

There were more explosions in rapid succession. A woman’s voice shouted orders, and a man hollered “Stay down!” The convoy was clearly under attack, and that command wouldn’t be directed at a trained soldier. _Stay down, Tony!_ I thought in terror. _Let them do their jobs!_ Another man was yelling for backup as machine guns chattered. I could picture clouds of desert dust filling the air and tried not to picture one frightened civilian in the middle of the chaos.

As abruptly as it had begun, the combat ended. Dead silence filled the airwaves. I breathed deeply and reached for my wine, waiting to hear everyone was okay. Finally, a voice came over, the last male one I had heard calling for backup. He reported several troops down, and while I was processing that, he hesitated, then added in a tone shakier than it should have been, “And Tony’s—he’s gone. He’s missing. They’ve got him.”

My hand jerked and spilled the last of the wine. It looked like blood spreading across my carpet.

The ping of an incoming email drew my attention. It was Simon replying to my earlier request. ::Hello luv. Hope you’re doing well. Can’t wait to read that article of yours, sounds brilliant. Haven’t heard any word on the Stark chap, though.::

Numbly, I typed, ::You will.::


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The full impact of Tony's kidnapping hits home. Chrissy reaches out to Pepper to offer help, and when terrible rumors begin to swirl, Pepper reaches back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things start to get real now!
> 
> Note, as in the last chapter, email communications are denoted with two colons at the start and end.
> 
> Feedback coveted, as always. :)

I sat up most of that night, listening to frantic soldiers and airmen. From their exchanges as they searched, they were hoping, as I was, that Tony had gotten clear of the firefight and taken cover. At some point, I dozed off on my couch, and woke with a start to morning sunlight and a shut-down laptop. I turned on the TV and prayed the night before had been a bad dream, until I saw the screaming headline at the bottom of CNN’s screen:

_TONY STARK MISSING IN AFGHANISTAN_

_Weapons innovator ambushed, possibly abducted_

In dazed silence, I listened as the reporter and anchor recounted what I had heard over Simon’s link: en route back to the US after demonstrating his newest missile system, Tony and his escorts had been attacked by unknown fighters. Four soldiers had been killed, but of their guest, no trace had been found. A map of the country appeared on the screen, with a large red arrow pointing to Kumar, a province near the Pakistani border. I recalled Simon describing it to me once: rocky and barren terrain, extensive cave networks, and so inhospitable that the allied troops called it Enemy Central. If Tony had been taken there, there was little realistic hope he would be found. I felt sick.

My in box held an urgent email from my editor. ::Plan was to massage your article and put it up next week, but A, considering the situation, TPTB want it posted asap, and B, it doesn’t need any damn massaging. Nobody’s ever gotten this kind of open talk out of Stark, NOBODY. What did you do girl, fuck that interview out of him?::

Torn between laughter and tears, I replied: ::no, Will, I did not fuck anything out of anybody.:: It wasn’t a lie, after all.

CNN was going wall to wall on the story. When I looked up, a tall man in a suit, bald and bearded, stood at a podium; the caption identified him as Obadiah Stane, CFO of Stark Industries. I recalled the name, Howard Stark’s longtime business partner, who had run the company after the latter’s death, and been a mentor and surrogate father once Tony took over as the youngest Fortune 500 CEO ever. I wished I had thought to ask Tony about him. 

I turned the volume up. “—Stark Industries is a strong company, with a great staff devoted to their mission. We will hold our heads up and keep moving forward, the way Tony would want us to. The US military is the greatest in the world, partly thanks to the cutting-edge technology we have supplied to them, and we trust in their abilities and their drive to do everything they can to find Tony—” Damn, maybe it was just me, but the man sounded like he was giving a promotional speech. Worse than that, he sounded as if he had already written Tony off as dead.

Far in the background, I spied a familiar head of strawberry blonde hair. Pepper Potts’ face was as calm as ever, but her eyes were red. To have cared for someone, and never told them, and now be faced with the terrible realization that you might never get another chance, had to be a pain like no other. I muted the coverage and tried to lose myself in my work, occasionally glancing at the TV screen in the vain hope I would see a chyron announce good news.

By evening, I’d reviewed my article and satisfied myself it was scoured clean of any hint of bias that might lead somebody else to seriously suspect what Will had jokingly speculated, yet was as fair and positive as it could be. The 24-hour news cycle had ground me down, looping the same video clips all day of Tony as technical genius and wild playboy. Angrily I flipped the TV off.

The image of a face of carefully concealed grief kept returning to my mind, and before I realized it, I was digging through my research files until I found the phone number I sought. I punched it into my phone and waited. “Virginia Potts here."

“Hello, Ms. Potts. This is Christine Everhart, we met a couple of days ago? I—”

“No. NO. go away! I’m not—"

“This isn’t a professional call!” I yelled before she could hang up. “I swear. Although I ought to give you a heads up; considering the circumstances, our bosses are rushing my article. It’ll be up on the website in the morning, and in the next issue coming out a few weeks from now.”

Her voice, when she spoke again, had returned to its usual composure. “Thank you for the notification, Ms Everhart, but an email would have been sufficient. Needless to say, we’re rather busy right now.”

“I know, and I am so sorry. I just, uh, wanted to let you know you could call on me at any time, if you think of anything I can do to help.”

The pause was so long, I checked to be sure she hadn’t hung up on me. “Why?” she finally asked.

Well, what the hell was I supposed to say to that? _I heard those soldiers being killed, and Tony being taken, and it shook me like nothing I’ve ever experienced._ Or maybe, _I feel really weird knowing I was probably the last girl he slept with._ That would engender a lot of trust…not. What ended up coming out of my mouth surprised me as much as it would anybody. “I’m from the South. It’s what we do, when we know somebody is hurting. We reach out. Do you have anybody? Family, friends, any kind of support system?”

“I’m fine,” she said, more quietly now. “But...thank you for asking. I’ll be fine.” 

“Okay, but I’m serious, Ms. Potts. If you think of anything I can do, anything at all, just call. I wanted you to know I’m thinking of you, and praying for strength for you, and for Tony’s safety.”

She sounded just a little flummoxed when she said goodbye, which was okay by me.

+++

Days turned into weeks. I moved along, and got a couple more good assignments. Every night, while it was daytime on the other side of the world, I listened to Simon’s radio hack. The military was still searching for Tony, and Simon told me every informant on the ground had been pressed into service, but it was as if he had vanished into thin air. There had been no ransom demands, that anyone had heard of anyway. Sometimes I found myself hoping he had died swiftly; better that than a captive of ruthless men, maybe tortured or worse. Mostly, though, I prayed he was alive, and maybe trying to find a way to escape.

The story receded from the top line of the news channels, until nearly a month after the ambush the new issue of Vanity Fair hit the street. I had gotten the cover, all right, but I would rather it had been in almost any other circumstance. When I sent the article in, I had suggested Tony’s comment comparing himself to a mall salesman would be a good title, but that was entirely too flip now. It had been a struggle, but I had gotten it changed to the only quote that seemed halfway appropriate. Across the top of the cover, just above the magazine title, were the words _‘Stark Men Are Made Of Iron’: The VF Interview, by Christine Everhart._

By noon that day, my phone was ringing constantly. By evening, I had scheduled four cable news interviews through the rest of the week. I’m more comfortable behind a computer than in front of a camera, but most of the questions just involved a rehash of what I had written. The only person who dug any deeper was Anderson Cooper. I suspected he was the only one who had actually read my article beforehand.

“You write that you found Tony Stark to be both more extraordinary and more ordinary than people know. How so?”

“He can think circles around the rest of us mortals, Anderson.” I explained my little epiphany about the Da Vinci comparison and how apt it really was, how he lit up talking about inventing, how he had ideas for things we didn’t even have the capability to build yet. “And yet—everybody knows Tony’s wild reputation, but nobody ever mentions the little normal things. He loves to tinker with old cars, he hates that he’s expected to live up to his father’s legacy, he laughs at himself if he trips.” I couldn’t very well admit it was actually him rolling off the bed. “He sometimes wishes he were just a mechanic at some local car dealership. In a lot of the ways that count, he’s no different from you or me.”

I liked the way the famous anchor listened. “One more thing before I let you go. There are rumors that Tony Stark’s disappearance is not what it appears to be: that it’s basically a long-game PR stunt, designed to depress Stark Industries’ stock prices and then boost them when he reemerges. What’s your take on that?”

My take was, I could feel a breeze blowing through my mouth when my jaw dropped. “Uh, could you repeat that? Just to make sure I heard what I thought I heard.” He did. “That’s what I thought you said. Pardon my language, Anderson, but if that’s not the single dumbest thing I’ve ever heard, it’s near the top. Whoever cooked up that crazy conspiracy theory either has never tried to keep a secret, never dealt with the US government, or both.” Of course, I couldn’t say I knew it was true because I listened as it happened. That would land me in the brig, or stockade, or whatever military prison was nearest. Fortunately, my answer seemed to satisfy. In a few minutes, I was divested of my microphone and earpiece and left the studio.

As I let myself into my apartment, my phone rang. I glanced at it but didn’t recognize the number. That didn’t mean much; it could have been anyone from my mom’s nursing home in Tennessee to an anonymous source with a tip on a hot story. I answered. “Ms. Everhart? This is Pepper Potts.”

“Oh! Um, hello, Ms Potts. How are you?”

“In need of your help. I just watched you on CNN and…that rumor you were asked about? It’s out there, and as insane as it is, it’s gaining traction, and I can’t—we can’t stand it. We have to respond. I suggested to Mr. Stane that we ask you to come and interview people in Tony’s inner circle, and write a response that will shoot this thing down before it spreads any farther. I read your article, and it was impressive. You went out of your way to be objective, considering…” _Considering I banged him, you mean? If only you knew the truth_ , I thought with a hint of bittersweet amusement. “I think you could be similarly objective with this while being very clear that it’s absolutely not true. That’s one reason I’m asking you.”

I had to admit, I was flattered, and touched. “What’s the other reason?”

Her voice cracked just enough for me to notice. “I’ve seen every interview you’ve done the past few days, and you’ve never talked about him in the past tense.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chrissy goes back to the Malibu mansion for the first time since Tony went missing. She meets Rhodey and Stane, and interviews them and Happy for her article.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swiped another RDJ quote for this chapter! a modified version of it became the line about Tony giving his word, that Happy tells Chrissy during their interview.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos and comments!
> 
> ETA to share a pic of my writing assistant. Yes, I made him. <3  
> https://flic.kr/p/29rErFC  
> Sorry, don't know how to make a link that works, but you can copy and paste. :(

I hadn’t anticipated returning to the mansion in Malibu, certainly not under these conditions. Pepper Potts stood in the open garage door waiting for me when I pulled up. She looked as composed as ever, but this time it was plain that she was struggling to maintain the façade; her knuckles were white around the tablet she gripped, and her face was pale, every freckle showing even through her makeup. 

She escorted me upstairs, where three men sat on the huge semicircular white sofa in the living room. Two I recognized, Happy Hogan and Obadiah Stane. The other was a sturdy-looking man, African-American, in military dress. Pepper introduced him as Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes, program liaison between Stark Industries and the Department of Defense. “Also Tony’s oldest friend,” he said as he shook my hand. 

I knew that voice. I had listened to it every night for weeks. It was the voice who had called for backup to search for Tony, the voice that had trembled in un-military fashion when he said ‘they’ve got him’. Evidently, my attempt to not startle was unsuccessful, because he gave me a quizzical look. I scrambled for cover, and settled, as usual, on a version of the truth. “Your name rings a bell. Were you, uh, with Tony when…”

Rhodes nearly flinched. “I was,” he said bleakly.

I nodded. “Okay, then you are probably going to be the most important person here, in terms of accomplishing this mission.” Two of my uncles were Navy, so I know enough military-speak to get by. I hoped using his terminology would get his attention and trust, and move against the guilt I saw in his eyes.

“That’s what I want to talk about before this goes any farther,” said Obadiah Stane, pushing to his feet. He was a big man, with a bluff manner, and I suspected he used both to get his way. He loomed over me. “How do you understand the ‘mission’ here?”

If he wanted to intimidate me, he wasn't going to succeed. “My understanding of the task you have set me, sir, is to write an article to push back against the rumors that Tony staged his abduction for publicity or profit. I’ll report the truth, and what you tell me, objectively, and I will also make it clear that I personally am very angry. I love journalism, and pardon my language, but these idiot pricks are giving it a bad name. So the task I have set myself is to rip the rumormongers a new asshole.”

The room was dead silent for a moment, before Rhodes barked out a laugh. “You did good, Pep,” he grinned. “I like her.” I managed a smile in reply, and then got to work.

Stane said he had commitments to get to, so I interviewed him first. Pepper took the others to another part of the house to wait. The chief financial officer talked about how he had known Tony since he was a precocious child, how his parents’ unexpected deaths had hurt him, how Stane had hoped he was finally starting to grow past those shadows. “And now, those damn terrorists, those Ten Rings bastards, they may take all that away. We need his brain, his heart, his charisma, to keep our world safe from sons of bitches like them!”

He seemed sincere enough, but something was off, and in a second I realized what it was. “You mentioned a specific group; Ten Rings, you said? Do you have intel on them? Is that who you think has him?”

“No, no, nothing we can pin down. It’s just, I’m told that they claim that area. Along with half a dozen other gangs of flea-bitten punks—” He appeared to make an effort to calm himself; then he leaned forward and put one big hand on my knee. “Miss Everhart, you have no idea how much I appreciate what you’re doing. Tony would too, if he were here. If you can get these vultures off our backs, I assure you, Stark Industries, and I personally, will be forever in your debt.” 

His fingers flexed slightly against my pantyhose, and I fought back a shiver. “That’s very kind of you,” I responded. “I’d appreciate it if you’d take your hand off my knee, though. You’re making me uncomfortable.” He moved it, but slowly, never letting his eye contact slip. It hit me that that was one huge difference between him and Tony. That night in Vegas, every step of the way, I had never had a doubt that Tony would respect my choices; but I felt in my gut, which is usually accurate if I’ll listen to it, that Stane was not that kind of man. 

After that experience, Harold Hogan, aka Happy, was a breath of fresh air. He was sweet and pleasant and not complicated at all. He explained he had earned his nickname by being too nice to his boxing opponents. “So there I was out of a job, drivin’ home one night when I come upon a car off the road. Real fancy piece of machinery, half wrapped around a tree and smokin’. I pulled over and got this young fella out, drunk as a skunk.” That, of course, was Tony. “I set by the side of the road waitin’ for help, with him spread out across my lap, bloody an’ beat up worse’n anything I ever dished out in the ring, but still tryin’ to talk, askin’ who I was an’ what I did. He looked up at me an’ said ‘Happy, you saved my life when you could just as easily have gone on by and left my drunk ass to die. You’re never gonna need a job again, not as long as I live.’ 

“Well, I didn’t think much of it, but a couple days later I get a phone call. ‘Happy!’ he says. ‘This is your boss, remember me? You haven’t been at work the past two days. Is there a problem? Do we need to renegotiate? You need a raise? What?’ I went ‘Uh.’” His laugh was open. “Yeah, that’s all I could say was uh. I went ‘I didn’t expect you meant what you said’. And he said ‘oh hell, I don’t mean most of what I say. Except my word. If I give you my word, that’s enough’. I showed up for work the next day and every day since.”

“Would you say he was right? About his word, I mean.”

“Oh, yeah. He don’t make promises real often, but when he does, he keeps ‘em. That’s how I know…this crazy story—It’d be more trouble than he’d bother goin’ to, riggin’ up some fake kidnappin’. An’ the boss would never leave us to think he was in harm’s way when he wasn’t. Not me, or Rhodes, and for sure not Miss Potts! He’d never hurt her like this.”

“So, hard evidence set aside for a moment: based just on the Tony Stark that you know, you say it’s not faked.”

The man looked up at me with wet eyes. “Lord, I wish it was faked. At least then we’d know he was okay.”

Rhodes—“call me Rhodey”—was next up. I was surprised to learn he and Tony had first met in college. He dug out his wallet and handed me a worn snapshot of a younger version of himself laughing beside a VERY young—and absolutely beautiful—Tony. Then he proceeded to make me laugh so hard I had to excuse myself to the restroom, telling tales of the hijinks he and his underage roommate had gotten into. More accurately, it sounded like Tony got them into most of the scrapes, and Rhodey had gotten them out. 

It hurt to have to change the subject. “You were with Tony in Afghanistan when the ambush happened. I’m sure there’s a lot you aren’t at liberty to discuss, but whatever you can give me that’s cleared for publication will be that much ammo against the rumor mill.”

“It—” He took a deep breath. “It was a smash and grab, a perfectly executed linear ambush. Tony was the target. As soon as they got what they wanted, they melted away.”

That shocked me; I had heard no such thing from the military briefings. “Then why no word? Why no ransom demands, no hostage video?”

“I don’t know! I tried to talk him out of going, two weeks before. I told him, he was our number one intellectual asset and he didn’t need to put himself at risk. But he’s never listened to anybody, including me. He didn’t want me to ride back to Bagram with him, he was cutting up with the troops he rode with and I think he thought if I was there they would button up.” It took effort to stay calm, knowing now I had been right about the voice I had heard over the link just before the shooting had started. “We were supposed to protect him. I was! Pepper reminded me of that, when I called to tell her he was missing and she ripped bloody strips off my hide. God, I wonder if he had any idea how much she—”

He stopped. “She what?” I asked gently, half sure of what he was about to say.

“You can’t print this, please…she loves him, like whoa, hardcore. I don’t know if she knows it, even.”

I let out a sigh of relief. “I don’t think she does either, but I do. Thank you! I was starting to think I was crazy; well, crazier than usual.” To his sharp look, I simply said, “Women can tell.”

“No damn good now. I got there five minutes after, but he—he was already gone. I should’ve made him let me ride with him.”

By now, my objectivity was out the window. “If you had, Rhodey, you’d probably be dead or badly hurt yourself right now. Then who would be searching for him? Who else is there who wouldn’t be giving up?”

Rhodey rubbed his hands over his face, then dropped them and glared at me. “How do you know I’m still looking? I was ordered last week to drop the search.”

Oops. “I, um, I can’t tell you. I have connections in-country, that’s all I can say, nothing that’s going to jeopardize what you’re doing. For what my opinion is worth, I’m glad.”

“I can’t stop, not until we find him, alive or—or otherwise.” His voice wavered, but he pushed on. “My CO said, wouldn’t he respect your doing your duty, getting back to your job? And I thought, No, he’d call me a puppet or a robot, and I’d get pissed, and we’d argue and wonder why we even bother with each other, and the next day we’d start over again and thank God for the opportunity--”

Screw journalistic distance. I held Rhodey’s hand while he wrestled with his emotions, thanked him for his help, then walked with him to the kitchen to say goodbye to Pepper. The heart to ask him more was just not in me anymore, this day.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chrissy interviews Pepper, and a friendship begins! :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops, did it again. :D Stole another RDJ quote. This time it's the line Chrissy quotes to Pepper about worry. (It's become one of my favorite quotes and is now living on my refrigerator.)

“How did they go?” Pepper asked. “Do you think you can write the article?”

She was sitting on a high stool at the kitchen counter, a bottle of water in front of her. I pulled up another stool and perched on it. “Definitely. By the time I’m through, everybody who ever even read that rumor will be ashamed. And hopefully the sacks of shit who concocted it will convene a meeting on your cliffs here and jump off into the ocean to end their humiliation.” That earned a small laugh. “Your turn now!” 

“Surely not. I don’t have anything to add to the discussion.”

“Of course you do. The way the article is coming together in my head, one of my key points, besides Colonel Rhodes having witnessed everything, is going to be the allegiance that Tony engenders in those closest to him. That faith speaks to Tony’s character, and that’s what I have to convey to the reader, to support my eyewitness testimony.”

“You sound like a lawyer.”

“In some ways, we are alike. A good journalist loves the truth, pursues it, and wants to reveal it and persuade others to see it, just like a good attorney. What I need from you is a little backstory: how you met Tony and came to work for him, and what that’s like from the inside. Nothing personal,” I added, “I can tell you’re a private person.”

After staring at her empty water bottle for a few moments, she started, “There’s not that much to tell. I did some modeling in college and after, but I got sick of the game and took an accounting job at Stark Industries. One day I found an error in the projections for a project cost. Nobody would listen to me, so I stormed right into Mr. Stark’s private office.” I chortled as she continued, “He was so surprised. He laughed as he took my paperwork, and then he looked at it and stopped laughing, because I was right. He wanted to know what department I worked in, and then said he needed someone who would watch his back and never lie to him, and he offered me the position of his personal assistant.”

I grinned. “And since then, as you told me before, you do whatever he needs done.”

“Up to and including taking out the trash, human or otherwise,” she agreed.

Gulp. I couldn’t decide whether to laugh out loud, or crawl under the counter. “I, um, guess that includes me?”

“No!” she surprised me by saying. “Not you. Other women Mr. Stark brings home were catty, bitchy, enjoyed lording it over the hired help. Definitely not you.” 

“Thanks,” I replied. “Wow, this suddenly became awkward.” We both laughed. Pepper shared a couple of tales of Tony’s quick wit and quicker mind, how he could spend days in his workshop, forget to eat, take catnaps curled up under a workbench. 

I glanced out the window at dusk starting to settle on the beach below. We’d been at this all day, and I felt it was time to wrap up. “Happy seemed pretty certain,” I began, “that Tony could never be so devious as to plan a fake abduction for personal gain, and wouldn’t leave you thinking he was in danger when he wasn’t.”

“I would agree,” she said slowly, as if thinking it through. “Sometimes he seems selfish, or thoughtless, but really, I think he just gets so caught up in the world inside his head. But something like what’s been suggested—no, absolutely not. I’ve worked for Mr. Stark for long enough that if he were capable of such—such cruelty, I think I’d know by now.”

Whoa, now that was a quote. “I think that’s a good place to stop,” I said and turned off my recorder app for the last time tonight. Pepper let out what sounded like a grateful sigh, and I looked more closely at her, noting the darkness under her eyes. “Not trying to pry, but have you been sleeping? Eating all right?” She shrugged. “Pepper, what good are you going to be to Tony when he comes home, if you’ve made yourself sick? There’s a very wise saying: _worrying is like praying for something you don’t want to happen._ You need to take care of yourself.” To her silence, I added, “Hey, if you want a home cooked meal and some company, you’re welcome to come over to my apartment. I’d even come over to your place and cook. Although this,” I looked around at the huge kitchen space, “would be awesome to work in. Bet Tony’s never so much as scrambled an egg in here. What a waste.”

“You’d win that bet,” she replied wryly. “Trust me, I know.” She lifted her head and pinned me with an intent gaze. “Why are you doing this, Ms. Everhart? There’s nothing else we can give you for now, and ‘I’m from the South’ hardly qualifies as an excuse.”

“It’s not an excuse, just a fact. And call me Chris, please. Besides, I--well, I went after that interview hating Tony Stark. He stood for so much I despise in this world. But then I met him. I met the real person behind the bullshit, and you know what? I could not hate him. I couldn’t. And I certainly don’t dislike you. I wouldn’t wish what you’re going through on my worst enemy. You ask why; I ask why not. If I have any means of helping you through this nightmare, that’s just the right thing to do.”

Pepper held my eyes with hers for another moment, as if she were still trying to figure me out. “You said ‘when’ he comes home,” she said softly, “not ‘if’.”

“I’m hoping he does. I’m praying for it.”

Her head lowered a little. “I haven’t been able to keep much food down,” she said, half to herself, “but if I feel like I can…tolerate some company, I’ll give you a call.”

+++

The article debunking the rumors scored me my second cover byline under the title, _"Lord, I Wish It Was Fake: Tony Stark's Inner Circle Has Had It With The Rumors"_. The publishers decided I was golden when it came to anything Stark, and happily sent me out on the cable news show rounds again. It felt so weird. Here I was, your classic Ivy League progressive war-hater, sitting in front of TV cameras defending a weapons manufacturer. I didn’t see it that way, though. If I had still loathed Tony, I would have done the same thing. Nobody deserved to be lied about in public, especially when he was in no position to defend himself.

The only time I came close to losing it was the night a jackass at Fox News asked me if I knew how much classified intel Tony knew, and how the military planned to protect it given that he had almost certainly given it all up under torture. I managed some innocuous reply, and managed not to throw up in the car. I did cry a little when I got home, since my oh so not helpful imagination readily supplied a mental image of Tony’s wickedly eager face twisted in pain deliberately inflicted on him. Then I emailed Rhodey to explain and offer an apology. It sounds crazy, but I felt I had crossed a line, gone somewhere way too personal in even being asked about such a thing. He replied almost immediately; I suspected he was back in Afghanistan readying for yet another round of searching. His reply was laced together with an impressive array of swear words, but was basically _it’s okay, it wasn’t your fault_. He didn’t deny the horrible possibility, because he couldn’t.

The next time I heard from Simon, I asked what insurgent groups were known to hold influence in the area where Tony had been kidnapped, and what if any word was making the rounds about the Ten Rings group specifically. He confirmed a group by that name claimed a portion of Kunar province, but they were one of the quieter crews and let little if anything slip about their plans. If Simon couldn’t glean intel, I wondered how Obadiah Stane would have. 

A few days later, Pepper called to thank me and I renewed my invite. This time, she accepted. I cleaned up my apartment, and cooked chicken fried steak with white gravy, mashed potatoes and Southern seasoned green beans. She looked a little stunned, then ate it all plus seconds and said she hadn’t had a meal like that since she was a kid back east. We ended up sprawled on my couch with beers, making fun of one of those Discovery Channel fake documentaries, and I counted the evening a success when she said just before she left, “I think I actually managed to forget, for a few minutes. Thank you.”

After that, we talked a couple of times a week. Pepper confessed she didn’t have any close girlfriends in California. Neither did I, so we started to bond over that. I tried to coax her out to shop or see a movie or just chill at the beach, but I didn’t press. Aside from the obvious stress, she still had a job to go to, and from the few comments she dropped, Stane wasn’t easy to work for. I could see why, too, even if she was used to cleaning up after Tony.

I suggested I could come over to her apartment and cook and hang out. She hemmed and hawed, and finally said, “I haven’t been staying at my place much, actually. I go out to Point Dume to check on things at Tony’s house, and half the time I end up falling asleep on his couch.”

Around the edges of wanting to cry for my new friend, I said, “Well, you know I’ve been lusting after his kitchen for weeks now. How about I bring some groceries over and cook? Unless you think he’s got the oven wired to explode if anybody messes with it.”

“Only if you let me split the cost, Chris.”

“Done. See you at five.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chrissy's friendship with Pepper grows, and the secret military radio hack brings the news they've been hoping for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all the kudos and great feedback! 
> 
> The note at the end is still there because I want to take it off everything but chapter 1, but it seems it's either all chapters or none. Sorry :(
> 
> I've read probably a dozen versions of how Pepper got her nickname--the one she tells Chrissy in this chapter comes from the novelization of the original Iron Man 1 script, which is also the source of several of the other expanded details in this story.
> 
> Remember, double colons mark texts or emails.

Cooking at Tony’s became a regular weekly thing. It would have been wonderful, finally having a girlfriend to talk to, if every week hadn’t been one more week Tony was missing, one week farther from the chance he might ever come home. 

We talked a lot, over wine and food and TV. We discovered we shared a fondness for Korean sheet masks and trashy paranormal romance novels. I confided about my origins, my poor Southern past and the way people judged me for it. One night, I even told Pepper how Tony had reacted, and then how he had apologized for hurting me. “Didn’t stop him from calling me Cornbread the rest of the night, though.”

Pepper smiled around her beer bottle. “You know I told you how I got the job as Tony’s assistant? When I went to take those accounting reports to him, my supervisor called security to keep me from barging into his office. They came in right behind me and were about to drag me out, I guess, and I yelled at them ‘Don’t you dare touch me! I have pepper spray!’” I almost snorted cider out my nose. “I was lying of course, and Tony knew it. I’m a terrible liar! But that’s why he wanted me to work with him.”

“Right. You said he told you he needed somebody who wouldn’t lie to him.”

She nodded. “Then he told a security guy to escort Miss Pepper Potts to her new office.” I couldn’t hold back my laughter as she finished, “And that is how I got my nickname.” I giggled and slapped my knee. After a few moments, she continued, “I remember that first morning we met, you said you wanted to thank him. Was that what you meant? That he didn’t make fun of your accent?”

“That, and…other things.” 

She sat up straight, set her beer bottle carefully on the floor, and looked directly at me. “You said he was…he was considerate in bed, more so than you expected.”

The statement was half a question, and I almost deflected it with a joke, an ‘oh boy, we had to go and get awkward again’. But it struck me that in her mind, I had had something that she wanted so badly and now might never have. Suddenly, it seemed very important to me that she know the truth. “Yeah,” I said simply. “By the time we got to his bed that night, he’d drunk so much he, well, couldn’t perform. So we never, you know, did the deed, as such. Not the first time I’ve been frustrated, but it was the first time the guy I was with…cared. Tony took care of my needs, and got creative about it, and wasn’t particularly concerned about himself.” I felt myself turn red, and shook my head. “And you do not need for me to dump any more details on you. You probably didn’t want those to begin with. I just thought you deserved to know, that’s all I wanted to thank him for. For caring.”

Pepper bit her lip. A sad and ironic little smile quirked the corner of her mouth. “He has such a good heart,” she whispered, “and I don’t think he even knows it, most of the time.” I just nodded in agreement.

+++

I halfway feared my confession might wreck our newborn friendship, but if anything, it seemed to put Pepper more at ease with me. Our periodic get-togethers continued, and along the way they expanded from just cooking and eating to me bringing my laptop over to Tony’s and working on my latest article after our meal, while Pepper did paperwork. Sometimes she even relaxed enough to read a novel or doze. Dozing was good, because I suspected she didn’t sleep nearly enough anymore. 

It was a quiet night like those that came before it, some three months or so after Tony was taken. I sat on one end of the huge white couch, while Pepper half-lay toward the other end. I was distracted from my notes on an interview I’d just done with a former indie film icon who’d recently gotten out of rehab, by the ping of my phone announcing a text. It was from Simon, which was unusual in itself; he normally emailed me. This sounded urgent, though. ::911 luv! Turn on the link I sent you asap. Something’s going down with your lads, not sure what, but it’s ripping!::

Quickly I pulled up the link, and as soon as sound started coming through, I knew Simon wasn’t kidding. From the conversations I heard, the morning routine for US troops in Afghanistan had been interrupted by a massive explosion in the hills of Kunar. I made interested noises and continued to listen.

“What’s that?” I looked up and suddenly realized I had forgotten I wasn’t alone! _Oh shit_ , I thought. 

“Um, it’s military radio from Afghanistan. Not encrypted or anything classified, just regular comms.”

Pepper put her tablet down. “Is that legal?”

“Probably not. A friend hooked me up. I don’t use anything I hear until I get official confirmation, though. It’s just—enlightening.”

She didn’t look surprised. “Rhodey said he thought you had some kind of inside information. You knew he was still looking for Tony even though officially he’d been ordered off.”

“Glad he didn’t report me.” I explained what I was listening to, and Pepper settled back down with her work—until we both heard a familiar voice. “Damn, isn’t that Rhodey?” I gulped. She scrambled to sit up, listening as intently as I was now. It sounded like Tony’s friend and his team had flown over the explosion site to check it out. 

“Pretty sure it was a terrorist encampment,” Rhodey informed his controller. “Nothing much left of it though. Looks like it blew sky -high, as if all their weapons detonated at once. Don’t see any sign of survivors—wait, there’s one guy out there. Centcom, we have one Unsub, going down to check it out.”

“Yikes,” I breathed, half to myself. “Unsub means unidentified subject. They can’t tell who this person is yet. Be careful, Rhodey! Lord, watch out for him and his people.” I could feel Pepper giving me an odd look; I didn’t care. I pray when I feel a need to, and don’t apologize.

We scooted together in the middle of the couch and listened to the background whapping of rotors as, thousands of miles away in tomorrow morning, the choppers descended. Their crew described to their base (and us) what they saw: a lone figure clambering over sandy hills, then suddenly at their approach starting to wave and shout, and dropping to his knees. “That’s weird,” one soldier remarked. “SOB oughta be runnin’, unless he’s one of ours. Do we have any MIAs out this way?”

“Nobody except—” Rhodey’s voice abruptly cut off followed by a sharp intake of breath. When he spoke again after several long seconds, I was slammed by déjà vu because he sounded almost exactly as he had that night months ago when Tony had been seized. “No way. It can’t be…” he said softly, unsteadily. “ _TONY??_ ” In the next instant, he started to bark orders. “Proceed with extreme caution! They could have him wired!”

I felt like I had been hit in the chest with a baseball bat. “Oh, dear God, no, no!”

“What does he mean?” Pepper looked stunned, as if the words hadn’t sunk in.

“He thinks it could be a trap,” I forced out. “Rhodey’s afraid the explosion was meant to get their attention. He—he thinks the terrorists could have put Tony out as a lure, with a b-bomb on him—” I choked on my sudden fear, on the horror now overwhelming Pepper’s face. Simon had told me how cells used captives as human weapons, helplessly bound with explosives under remote control to ambush their would-be rescuers or timed to detonate.

“If he’s wired he doesn’t know it,” Rhodey almost groaned. “He wouldn’t be flagging us down—he’s so damn hardheaded, he’d let ‘em blow him up before he’d risk our people.”

Pepper grabbed my hands in a death grip, her mouth half open, and I—well, I freely admit it, I freaked the fuck out. This couldn’t be happening, not getting this close and then losing him. “God in heaven, please,” I gasped with my face raised, “put your angels around Tony! Protect him and bring him home to the ones who love him.”

I closed my eyes, with all my heart put into that prayer, and focused on my ears. For what felt like an hour, the big house was totally silent except for our nervous breathing and the background noises from the other side of the world. Rhodey had his mike muted, apparently. We heard his voice, no louder than a mumble, and couldn’t make out words, but I could pick up his tone, first panicky, then puzzled, and finally firm and gentle.

Moments later, as if in answer to my plea, Rhodey came back on the comm loud and clear. “Centcom, no explosive, repeat, no explosive.” His voice rose, and I swore I could hear him smile. “We have a positive ID on our Unsub. Tony Stark is alive and safe.”

I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding and turned to Pepper in time to see disbelieving joy break like light across her face. Then she started to cry. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony comes home!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have things on my schedule the next couple of days, so thought I'd go ahead and throw this shortish chapter up for y'all. :)

Pepper cried more the next few days than she had in all the months Tony had been missing, at least more than I had seen. She said it was relief, and hope for things finally getting back to normal.

Her normal was different from mine, of course. Tony’s return meant Stark Industries would go back to its usual business of marketing destruction. The state of grace, of sorts, that I had been suspended in would dissipate, and I’d have to learn to balance my fondness for Tony with my distaste for what he did. The friendship I had developed with Pepper might help, and I might even be able to put a bug in Tony’s ear now and then. For now, I sighed a little inwardly and went back to work.

The morning Tony came home, Pepper called me from the back of the limo with Happy at the wheel, on their way to Edwards Air Force Base. “What am I going to do, Chris?” she sniffed. “When he’s working, a giant bird could crap on his head and he’d never notice, but anybody can tell I’ve been crying. Makeup only does so much, you know! And if he says something about it, what am I going to tell him?”

“You could try, oh I don’t know, telling the truth! ‘Yeah, I really missed you, I was afraid you were dead’,” I ragged gently. “But I know you aren’t going to do that, so, hm. Steal his MO, make a joke of it. Say you were upset because if he died you’d have to go find another job and that’s such a pain.” That got me one of her little snort-laughs, so I scored it as a win. 

I didn’t hear anything else for much of the day, until suddenly my phone dinged to announce a text message. It was from Pepper. ::he busted me. ‘your eyes are red’, he said. ‘few tears for your long lost boss?’ I said ‘tears of joy, I hate job hunting’. he knew, I think, but he just said ‘vacations over, time to go back to work’.:: I had to laugh as I read, mostly because I could hear those words in my head in Tony’s voice. ::Oh he wants a presser, rt now. Well, a burger first, lol. Then we’re heading for SI, main mtg rm::

Whoa, I was not dressed to cover sudden breaking news. I was planning errands, so dressed casually in some nice linen slacks and a comfortable top rather than my usual power suit, but there wasn’t time to worry with that. I hustled to Stark Industries and found the front entranceway crowded with employees eager to see their boss return. Obadiah Stane was front and center. I pulled around to the side of the complex, found a parking space and then located a less used entrance, so as to avoid the crush of people. That’s what I told myself, anyway.

The main meeting room was deserted. I procured a cold drink and sat on the floor by a window, in front of the low stage and podium. A plaque against one wall declared it the Howard Stark Memorial Speaker’s Center. The irony of that was not lost on me. In a lot of ways, I mused, this was still the elder Stark’s company, no matter how much Tony might want it otherwise.

In a little while, reporters I knew began to filter in, having gotten word through one means or another that an unexpected press conference was in the offing. I stuck to my prime location like my butt was glued to that floor, glad for my inappropriate pants, and silently thanked Pepper for the heads-up. The murmur of the throng out at the entrance rose in volume, and suddenly became wild cheers. Despite my determination to remain disinterested, my heart gave a little leap and I scrambled to my feet.

The hubbub grew louder and came closer, and suddenly, there, being escorted by Stane to the front, Tony walked in. Stane made a beeline for the podium, but instead of following, Tony sat down on the edge of the platform. “Hey,” he interrupted Stane’s efforts to wrangle the press, who by now were as loud as the happy employees. “Would it be all right if everyone sat down? Will you sit down? That way you can see me, and I can... it’s a little less formal.” 

Fine by me. I plopped right back down in front of the podium. It wasn’t like it was the first time I’d been on the floor with him, after all. The other media fumbled around behind me, which gave me time to scrutinize the man sitting a couple of feet away. He looked exhausted; well dressed in suit and tie as always, but it hung on him. His face was bruised and sunburnt. His right arm was in a sling, and his left hand held—oh, that burger Pepper said he’d asked for. 

He looked over the group now awkwardly finding their way to the floor, but I wondered how much he was processing. His huge dark eyes took up most of his thin face, and they looked—haunted, for lack of a better word. They skated over me with no sign of recognition. Stane left the podium, came down and sat beside him. It was a nice gesture, though it didn’t make me trust the man any better. Tony looked over at him and said softly, “I never got to say goodbye to dad.” The noise behind me didn’t lessen; I only heard it because I was so close. 

“I never got to say goodbye to my father,” he repeated louder, and silence fell. I thought of this room that bore his father’s name. “There're questions I would've asked him. I would've asked him how he felt about what his company did; if he was conflicted, if he ever had doubts. Or maybe he was every inch the man we remember from the newsreels. I saw young Americans killed by the very weapons I created to defend them and protect them. And I saw that I had become part of a system that is comfortable with zero accountability.”

The silence was broken by a voice I knew, a guy from the San Francisco Chronicle. “Mr. Stark, what happened over there?” 

“I had my eyes opened.” Tony stood suddenly and went to the podium. His voice rose, pitched to carry without having to yell. It struck me how he should look beaten, small, weak, after what he had suffered; but every eye in the room was fixed on him. He had them all in his hand without even trying. “I came to realize that I had more to offer this world than just making things that blow up.” I swallowed a gasp. It was exactly what I had said to Pepper, that morning we first met. “And that is why, effective immediately, I am shutting down the weapons manufacturing division of Stark Industries until such a time…”

I lost the rest in the eruption of shouts and questions from behind me. Stane jumped up, reclaimed the podium and started spouting some BS about meetings and consultations and basically trying to walk back what we had just heard. _Lord, I know I asked you to show Tony another path, but I didn’t mean get the poor guy nearly killed in the process!_ I decided it was just another proof of the importance of being careful what you ask for.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chrissy is assigned an interview with an uncomfortable subject, and enlists Pepper's help. Later, she witnesses something incredible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longish chapter to make up for the last one. lol
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING. This chapter includes descriptions of inappropriate male behavior toward a female. Nothing explicit, I just thought y'all ought to know beforehand.

The first email from VF’s publishers hit my in box an hour after Tony’s homecoming press conference. I got several a day for the next week, and at least one daily after that. “They aren’t going to leave me alone, Pepper!” I groaned after too many days of the constant drumbeat. “I interviewed Tony before he went to Afghanistan, then I interviewed his team while he was there, and now that he’s back, they want me to complete the trilogy, apparently.”

“He’s not doing interviews for anybody, Chris,” Pepper reminded me. “He's recuperating, and he barely leaves his workshop, which isn’t all that unusual for him.”

“I get that, but the news coverage is insane! Stark Industries stock is going up and down like a Disneyland ride. The governor’s making worried noises about SI layoffs. I’m hearing your board is having fits. I’m hearing Tony has PTSD and hasn’t left his bed since the presser. Now, I might be the last person on earth Tony wants interviewing him; if so, my publishers will just have to deal. But I’m saying this as a friend, not as a reporter: somebody’s going to have to step up and be your public face, and soon.” 

There was silence on the other end of the phone line, before Pepper sighed. “Obadiah told Tony to keep his head down and stay out of the public eye. He continues to insist that he isn’t building weapons anymore and he’s getting SI out of its military contracts. And I’m not authorized to disclose any of that, so you can’t use it.”

“Wasn’t asking to. You’ll have to give somebody something they _are_ authorized to use, though.”

“Obadiah seemed to really like you. I can ask if he’d do your interview.”

I really, really didn’t want that. I didn’t like him, I didn’t trust him, and I did not want to be alone with him. My rational mind ridiculed that, but letting reason yell down instinct has gotten many a woman in big trouble. Logically, though, Pepper’s suggestion made perfect sense. “If you have a chance to ask, that’s okay, but I doubt he’d have time.”

The very next morning, my phone rang. “Miss Everhart!” boomed Obadiah Stane’s faux-hearty voice. “Miss Potts tells me you’re looking for me.”

Good thing he couldn’t hear eyes rolling. “Hello, Mr. Stane. My managers at Vanity Fair would really like for me to close the circle that started with my initial interview with Tony, with another interview that looks at the, um, circumstances around his return, the changing business model—”

“The business model hasn’t changed,” he harumphed. “Stark Industries is as stable as ever.”

“That isn’t the current perception, sir. So if you want it to be, you’re going to have to get out there and make it known.” No, I did not want to have to deal with this, but since it seemed I was, it was going to get done and done right, _if_ I could find a way to do it safely.

“You’re right, of course! And you’re the person to do it. How about my office here at SI?”

“Perfect.” It was semi-public, so less chance for funny stuff, I hoped. “Tomorrow around midday?”

“I’m busy then. What about later in the evening, about six?” 

_Oh no, mister, you are not getting me up in that big office building alone after hours._ I couldn’t think of an excuse, but I got an idea. “I’ll check my schedule. If you don’t hear from me, I’ll see you then.”

I hung up and texted Pepper immediately. ::Hey, just heard from Mr. Stane, scheduled interview. Thanks! Need to talk to you though. Got another assignment & could use your brain. You free for lunch?::

In a couple of minutes, I got an affirmative and we arranged to meet. Over salads and soup, I explained my semi-fictional quandary. “I’ve got to interview this guy. I interacted with him once before and he was—kind of inappropriate. Leaning in close, putting his hand on my knee, telling me how much he personally appreciated my work, you know. Anyway, he wants me to come to his office tomorrow after business hours—”

“Oh no,” Pepper interrupted with a shake of her head. “He’s setting you up, don’t you see?”

“Yes, but I thought I was overreacting. That’s why I wanted to ask you. I’m glad you see it too.” She had never indicated that Stane had behaved that way toward her. If I had told her he had done those things, she would have been caught in a terrible bind. By sharing the behaviors but not the name, she could judge fairly, and I thought, rightly.

“Absolutely. You are not doing that interview, Chris!”

“Pepper, I have to!” I put up my hand to forestall her protests. “I’ve got an idea, if you can help me. I’m thinking I could call you before I go in, and after I leave.”

“When you’re in your car and at least a mile away,” she ordered, “so I know you’re safe.”

“Good enough. Give me an hour after the first call, and if you haven’t heard back, you call me. If everything’s good I’ll say so. If not, hm, I’ll say you’re my boss calling about a meeting I forgot. That gives me an out. I’ll stay on the phone with you while I’m leaving—surely he’d be scared to try anything with an earwitness.”

I arrived the following evening in the most severely professional pantsuit I owned, ready to do battle. As I phoned Pepper, I wondered if Stane had told her I was coming. If so, she was about to chew me out. The brief check-in went fine, though, which paradoxically made me more anxious. If he hadn’t told her, did that mean he was planning to put a move on me?

At first, things went smoothly. I started my recorder, whipped out my notebook (backup for the app, I said, though really it was an excuse to avoid eye contact) and tried to channel my inner Pepper. Icy competence doesn’t come naturally to me, but I did my best.

Stane put on a full-bore charm offensive. Or, well, he tried. He beamed when he talked about what he wanted for Stark Industries, coolly blew off my question about the Ten Rings, and praised the employees who executed their orders. He made a genuine effort to not be obvious looking down my blouse when he leaned forward and dropped into a fake-conspiratorial tone, confiding his concern about Tony’s mental health and how he feared the ordeal in Afghanistan had broken ‘the boy’ beyond repair.

As I said, he tried to charm me. But I had spent a night with Tony Stark. I knew real charm.

When he finished his self-aggrandizing, the moves started. Stane laid compliments about my work on heavy, and raved about his appreciation for my obliging his busy schedule and how he wished we could talk more. I saw that truck coming a mile down the road. “I’m starving,” he said, “and even though you have the figure of a goddess, I’m sure you have to eat sometime. How about if we take this party somewhere to get a bite? We can talk some more; that way your bosses will have to cover the cost,” he added with an arch look that was supposed to carry on the us-against-the-world thing he was working on.

“That’s a lovely offer,” I said and glanced at my phone’s clock. Almost an hour gone; either I’d call Pepper or she’d call me in the next minutes. “Unfortunately, I promised to meet someone.”

His hand closed around my wrist. “I seem to remember a lot of your interview with Tony was conducted on his plane returning from Vegas. You can’t have dinner with me, but you could spend hours with him doing God knows what?”

“Mr. Stane!” I widened my eyes and tried to look appalled. “Are you implying I traded sex for access? Because that’s categorically untrue, not that my personal life is any of your business anyway.” I pulled my arm away and snapped my notebook closed. “Thank you again for your time. I’ll be in touch before any of this goes to press.”

His expression had totally changed; the charm was flaking away like old paint. He reached for me again—and my phone rang. “Oops! Excuse me!” I said brightly. “Hello?”

“How’re things going?”

“Oh my gosh! That meeting. I’m so sorry, I’ll be there as fast as I can. Thank goodness you called! I’m wrapping up here right now, hold on a sec, then you can catch me up while I drive.” I moved the phone from my ear and told a frustrated-looking Stane, “It’s my editor, I forgot a staff meeting, and she is mad. Gotta go!”

He sputtered as I left babbling into the phone. The click of my high heels dashing through the lobby sounded like a ticking bomb to my ears, and I listened for him behind me. I jumped into my car and all but squealed tires out of there. Two miles away, I pulled into a Burger King and just sat for a moment until I registered Pepper all but screaming at me. “Chris! Dammit, answer me! Are you okay? Did he try anything?”

“No,” I managed at last. “He was going to, I think; he asked me to dinner, and when I wouldn’t, he started to get mad. He’s a man used to getting what he wants, obviously. When I turned him down, it was like I was challenging his dominance, and he wasn’t going to allow that.”

“But you’re okay? Are you in a public place? He might follow you.”

“I thought about that. Yes, I’m in a public place; no, I haven’t been followed.”

“Do you want to come stay at my place?”

“That’s sweet, girlfriend, but I’m good. I’m going to eat, drive around, and head home. My building has good security.”

We said goodbyes and Pepper hung up, mumbling something about how I was almost as hard to deal with as Tony. I thought about it while I went through the drive-through, and decided to consider it a compliment.

For a while I drove aimlessly, with an eye to my rearview mirror, but noted nothing worrisome. When I slowed, it was full dark and I was on the cliffs above Point Dume. I pulled off the road and parked overlooking the beach and ocean. Shucking my fitted jacket and pumps, I clambered onto the hood of the car with my supper. A nice burger and the fresh sea air did wonders to restore my calm. I looked around, enjoying the view, and noticed a familiar building not too far away: Tony Stark’s mansion. I wondered how he was. Nobody could endure what he had and emerge unchanged, and I prayed it was for the better.

I lay back on the hood and watched shooting stars and airplanes for a few minutes, then noticed something odd in the sky, something that clearly was neither. It raced up the coast at a high rate of speed, its path flat and straight. Curious, I sat up and tried to identify it. It didn’t appear large enough to be a standard manned aircraft. Was it a hobby craft, a drone, a UFO? 

The next moment, it halted, shifting position in mid-air, and I gasped. It was human, or at least human-shaped. The full moon glinted off what appeared to be metal, glistening gold and vivid red, with a blue-white light bright in its chest. I studied it, wishing for binoculars, trying to figure how it hovered upright above the waves, until it shot straight up into the night sky and vanished. I glimpsed bright light at the hands and feet; thrusters, maybe? Whatever, I had gotten all the show I was going to, apparently. With a sigh, I sat back—until the bizarre flyer swooped back downward, then up again, and I saw it was drawing huge loops in the air, as though for the sheer joy of flight. Open-mouthed with wonder, I watched the armored figure plunge toward the sea and pull up at the last instant, skimming so low it actually dipped one hand into the water to splash as it flew. I fumbled for my phone and snapped several quick pictures, marveling at the grace and power in its movements.

Suddenly, it soared upward and angled toward land, and I realized too late I was a clear target atop my car if it saw me as a threat. I tried to scramble off the hood, but was paralyzed with mingled fear and awe. With a sigh of relief, I saw it was not coming straight toward me, but instead aimed further up the way…toward the Stark mansion. My sigh turned to a gulp and I almost fell off the car. Straight as a bullet it went; then it angled up toward the roof, hovered, and lowered out of sight, and I heard a faint thump.

A thousand questions raced through my mind. Of course they did; I’m a reporter, for Pete’s sake. Should I call Pepper? Should I drive over there? Could the entity be a threat to Tony? I’d never noticed security around him, but surely he was well guarded, and it certainly hadn’t behaved like it was planning an attack. The figure could just as easily be a creation of his, actually. It was an odd comfort to think that days in his workshop could yield something so weird and yet so fiercely beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update--after posting this chapter, I watched IM1 again, and remembered that the first red and gold suit was actually the Mark III which Tony didn't build until the day of the gala. For purposes of this verse, therefore, we will just say that the Mark II was the first with that iconic color scheme, if that's okay with y'all. :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chrissy's ex sends her some disturbing photos, and she confronts Tony with them at the Firefighters' Gala.

My Stane article satisfied upper management. Nobody noticed the casual reminders that the company he was running was not his, the subtle negative comparisons between him and Tony, or the simple quote of my question about the Ten Rings band and his reply that left an indirect impression that he knew more than he was saying about Tony’s kidnapping. Those were actually the parts I was proudest of.

Things started leveling out. I talked to Pepper, and we met for lunch occasionally. Stane and the SI board were still having a hissy fit, but Tony was sticking to his guns, or absence of them. At least, I thought he was, until the pictures arrived.

Simon knew I was the go-to person on the Stark story. Lord knew I’d asked him enough questions in recent months. If we hadn’t been broken up for two years, I would have sworn the snarky replies to my texts and emails were fueled by jealousy. Two weeks after the Stane debacle, a hefty file labeled ‘Gulmira’ landed in my in box.

The accompanying message read ::hullo luv—these just came from a village in Kunar. Hellish place by all accounts, site of an old Soviet smelting plant sheltering farmers & goatherds displaced by that lot you asked about. Ten Rings’re backing local warlords, kidnapping men to bulk up their force, generally wreaking havoc. I had a look & noted something you might find right interesting…see the name on the weaponry? Looks like your bloke is back to his old ways, if he ever left.::

With sinking heart, I opened the file. The pictures were of a typical dusty Afghan village. Some showed stacks and stockpiles of weapons, others dirty fighters with rocket propelled grenade launchers perched on their shoulders, and still others insurgents wielding machine guns, marching peasants toward uncertain fates. In nearly every photo, the angular swoosh and block letter logo of Stark Industries was plain. _Damn. Damn, damn, damn._

I wanted to shove the photos down Tony Stark’s charming lying throat, but last I’d heard, he was still holed up in his lair. Then I remembered the Firefighters’ Family Fund gala that he sponsored, at the Disney Concert Hall downtown, that very night. Before I could talk myself out of it, I texted Pepper. ::Hey, are you going to that charity soiree tonight?::

While I waited for a reply, I printed the pictures, found a clean envelope to put them in, and wrote STARK on the front. Then I located a note pad, and with my best fountain pen, because those people Tony had hurt deserved a little quality, I wrote simply _‘how does it feel to know your people trust your word, and then stab them in the back by breaking it after you gave it so publicly?’_

My phone beeped. Pepper responded ::I am! Got a new dress for my birthday, excited about having a place to wear it.::

::Great!:: I answered. ::I’m covering it, so I’ll see you there. Oh and I have some docs a source sent me, that might interest Tony. If I bring them could you pass them along?::

::sure:: she replied. I emailed Will to ask if anyone was assigned to the gala and if they really wanted to do it. He said yes and no, and emailed me the invitation/admission ticket.

Normally, society shindigs don’t get my pulse up. In this case, it wasn’t the shindig, as much as the chance to expose the deceit. I ranted out loud while I got ready, just to get it out of my system. When I arrived at the gala, I was cool as glass, and I looked, if I say so myself, like a million bucks. Little black dress, stylish wrap, teeny purse over my shoulder, hair upswept to show off some kick-ass earrings I’d scored at a sale on Rodeo Drive.

It was heartening seeing so many people turn out for a fundraiser. With a glass of ginger ale in my hand, I visited with well-heeled donors, and recorded some usable sound bites. Finally I spotted Pepper, in an amazing blue dress, with her hair in soft curls. I barely recognized her out of uniform, so to speak. I started across the room, hand halfway up to wave and call to her, when out the corner of my eye I spotted someone else heading her way.

It was Tony Stark, in a tux, homing in on Pepper like she was the only person there. I screeched to a halt. Pepper hadn’t said he was coming. Then again, I hadn’t asked, and from her expression, she hadn’t expected him to crawl out of his hole either. I slid aside, and observed. They exchanged words, then he led her out onto the dance floor. 

What I saw just about broke my heart. Pepper glided along in his arms, her eyes all for him. Dammit, I’d been right. She was in love with him. My friend was in love with that lying sonovabitch. Worse yet, when they turned and I could see Tony’s face, he was looking at Pepper like she was the sun, moon and stars all rolled up in one. Those evil eyes were soft, gazing at her in a way I could not have imagined. Was it possible he felt for her too? Nobody was all light, or all dark. I suspected he had justified in his own head what he had done, but selling arms to the very thugs believed to have captured him beggared belief. 

Tony’s appearance made things both easier and harder for me. Harder, because I didn’t want to confront him with the photos in front of Pepper, in a public place. She didn’t deserve that humiliation. Easier, because if I could catch him alone, I would confront him and save her the trouble of being delivery girl.

I kept watch and got my break a little while later. Tony had led Pepper upstairs, probably to the roof observation area. A few minutes later, he came back down and headed for the bar. I steeled my spine and moved in. “Well, Tony Stark! Fancy seeing you here.”

“Oh, hey…” he returned, his face crinkled as if in thought. “Carrie?”

“Christine.” _Great, he doesn’t even remember me. Wish I didn’t remember him, or what I thought he was._

“That's right. In my defense, I have been out of town for a while, you may have heard.” 

I wasn’t going to let him sidetrack me with his fake self-deprecating wit. “You have a lot of nerve showing up here tonight. Can I at least get a reaction from you?” 

“Um, panic. I would say panic is my reaction.”

“I was referring to your company's involvement in this latest atrocity.” It took everything in me not to spit in his handsome face. And damn, he was handsome. Tony Stark was probably born wearing a tux.

“Yeah, well, they just put my name on the invitation. I don't know what else to tell you.”

His glib carelessness just made me angrier. Truth be known, I was almost as mad at myself as at him. I had been so hopeful after his return, ready to believe my prayers had been answered, and I probably wouldn’t have been so furious if I hadn’t liked him and wanted to believe him. “I can’t believe I almost fell for it, hook, line and sinker.” He looked puzzled. I dug into my little purse, jerked out the photos and thrust them into his hands. “Is this what you call accountability?” I hissed, disgust dripping from my voice. _Check this out, you damned hypocrite. I’m on to you now._ “A town called Gulmira. Ever heard of it?” Of course he hadn’t; hell, it was so tiny, I had to google it myself. 

I was surprised when he started as if in recognition. He studied the images, and I was just about to drive the stake into his black heart by helpfully pointing out his company’s mark, but that wasn’t necessary. The change was shocking. I literally watched the superficial socialite mask drop from his face, as he scanned the pictures and then turned to me with a laser-like focus I had never seen from him in any circumstance.

“When were these taken?” he asked.

“Yesterday.” I didn’t say where I got them, and he didn’t ask.

“I didn't authorize this.” His voice was tight suddenly, and angry, so different from his casual tone of just a moment before. 

“Well, your company did.”

“Well, I'm not my company!” he snapped. 

“So, no excuses, no rationale? You simply say you didn’t know?”

He shook his head and looked away. The hands holding my photos trembled, just a hair, just for an instant. His lip curled into a near-snarl. The rage rising in him was almost a tangible thing. I decided, right then and there, that I never, ever wanted Tony Stark that angry at me.

His free hand shot out and grabbed mine. “Come with me,” he said and began to tow me toward the hall’s entrance. I smothered a yelp, hustled to keep up, and was just about even with him when we burst through the doors and I saw where he was heading: straight toward Obadiah Stane, glad-handing on the red carpet. _Oh FUCK no_ , I thought, planted my feet and pulled free.

Tony halted and turned toward me. I shook my head. “No, I’m not getting…no. Just no.” Fighting panic, I flapped my hand at the envelope. “Take that and do what you’ve gotta do.” A huge potted plant sat nearby and I ducked behind it, with a prayer Stane hadn’t seen me, and a whole lot of shame. The chance to get right in the middle of the mix had been handed to me, and I had thrown it away. I should be going after this story hammer and tongs, but I could not confront that man again.

Faintly, I picked out Tony's voice raised slightly, then Stane’s low rumble. I didn’t look. Instead, I crept back into the hall and tried to settle myself. Screw ginger ale, I needed alcohol. Two fresh drinks sat on the bar, where Tony had stood. Either he was drinking two-fisted or…On a hunch, I grabbed both glasses and headed up the wide stairs. Sure enough, Pepper was sitting near the edge of the roof, patiently waiting. Her eyes brightened when she spied me. 

“Hey, girlfriend!” I forced cheer into my voice. “I ran into Tony downstairs, so I gave him those papers I told you about. Guess they meant something to him, because he took off right away. Asked me to bring you your drink and his apologies.” I had no idea where any of that had come from, no idea why I was covering for a man I…hated? Distrusted? What exactly was my opinion of him? Honestly, I didn’t even know at that point, but I tried to put it out of my mind for now.

“Well, that’s unexpected,” Pepper kidded and took her glass. “Not. Tony has the attention span of a goldfish sometimes.”

I sat down and drank with my friend, chatting lightly about the clothes and shoes and music around us. “Do you need a lift home?” I asked. “Since your date went ‘squirrel!’ and ran off.”

“Not my date!” Pepper shook her head vehemently. “My boss, remember? We didn’t come together, no. I’m fine, but thanks.”

_Not your date, but you wish_ , I thought sadly. “Do you think he’s really changed, Pepper?”

“I do. And it bothers me. I like stability, I like to know where I stand from day to day. This is upending everything. I’m worried about my job, and about Tony. Obadiah keeps saying he’s snapped, that whatever they did to him in Afghanistan broke him.”

_That must be the line Stane’s feeding everybody_ , I thought. Thinking back on that ferocious intensity in Tony’s eyes, though, it didn’t seem to me that he was less in any way, but more, somehow, since his return from captivity. I couldn’t say that without explaining about the pictures. It might make Pepper feel better about her job to know Tony was apparently selling arms again, but then again, he seemed to be her greater concern. I sighed, finished my drink and said good night.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the confrontation at the gala, an unexpected arrival in Gulmira piques Chrissy's suspicions. As she starts to put the pieces together, Pepper calls on her for help and uncovers the horrifying truth about Tony's abduction.

I couldn’t sleep. 

I was antsy, on edge. The photos from the little town being ripped to pieces by terrorists haunted me, but the more personal events of the night had truly shaken me. Just getting within eyeshot of Obadiah Stane had rattled my cage, which angered me. For anger, though, nothing could top the look of grim determination on Tony Stark’s face. He had said he knew nothing of those arms sales, and half against my will, I thought I believed him.

For an hour or so I dozed, and then woke with a start. Lather, rinse, repeat. Just after dawn, I gave up and got out of bed. I didn’t want TV, didn’t want to read. When I booted up my laptop, I didn’t want to write. I watched some cat videos on youtube, then glanced at the news and found I was going to have to start over from scratch on the article about the indie film guy, because he’d gotten busted again. This time, I bet his perfect ass was going to jail instead of rehab. I sighed. It was a shame; he was a lovely guy, when he wasn’t drunk or stoned.

I hadn’t listened to Simon’s feed in a while, so I decided I’d see what the US armed forces were up to. After a little fiddling, I came upon some fascinating transmissions about a weapons depot in Afghanistan that had just been blown to smithereens. The exchanges between contacts in the various branches of the service were universally baffled; none of them took responsibility. A no-fly zone was declared and an investigation launched.

That wasn’t all that was launched, apparently. By the time I made some tea and settled back down on my love seat, the control room at Edwards Air Force Base was in a tizzy. An unidentified aerial vehicle was in the new no-fly zone, and two Raptor jet fighters were scrambling to intercept it. 

The level of chaos on the lines was amazing. Nobody had a clue what this tiny bogey was. My interest was piqued even more when the major in charge radioed the weapons development section and called for Lieutenant Colonel Rhodes. Did summoning Rhodey mean they thought Tony had some tie to this bogey? 

The Raptors engaged with the bogey, only to, judging from all the shouting, be thoroughly outrun and outgunned. People were yelling that the UAV was flying at supersonic speeds, then was deploying chuff, metallic confetti basically, to throw the fighters’ electronics off its trail. Oddly, though, it didn’t fire back at them, instead just kept playing an evasive game. 

It was all very interesting, until the bogey latched on to one plane, and the other pilot got close enough to gasp, “It looks like a man, sir! Or a, a robot, or something? It’s metallic, red and gold—what country paints their gear like that—”

I nearly strangled on my tea. The voices over the comm kept going while my dazed brain tried to catch up. The bogey had been shaken loose, had fired on the second Raptor—or maybe just collided with it, everything was going so fast. The pilot of the damaged plane bailed out, but his chute wouldn’t open. The bogey swooped down, and according to his buddy, saved him.

Somewhere in the middle of all that, Rhodey yelled, “SON OF A BITCH!”. I wondered if he knew something the rest of that control room didn’t. 

The major ordered the surviving fighter to shoot the bogey down. Rhodey retorted they didn’t know what they were dealing with. In the ongoing bedlam, or perhaps because his comrade had just been rescued by the thing, the jet pilot let the UAV slip away.

With shaky fingers, I dug my phone out from where it had slid down between the seat cushions and flipped through my photos. No, I hadn’t dreamed it. The pictures weren’t magazine-quality, but there was the figure the pilots had described, soaring over the night-wrapped sea off Malibu beach.

I considered texting them to Rhodey, but decided my best course of action was to do what I did best—dig up facts, data points, and then connect the dots. I opened a couple more browser windows and flipped on CNN. Time to work for a living.

By mid-afternoon, I had a lot of very interesting dots. TV news reported that the weapons depot that had been blown was only a few kilometers, klicks in military-speak from the place where Tony had been found, and was right outside of…the village of Gulmira. 

I’d shot off an urgent email to Simon asking for any intel from his Kabul contacts. Within a couple of hours, he sent me a link to a local TV station’s streaming coverage. There was no video of the event itself, but a reporter interviewed several locals and they had plenty to say. Simon or someone at his bureau had thoughtfully transferred the Arabic closed captioning into Latin characters, so I paused the playback every few seconds to write things down and then input them into translation software. It was a laborious process, but what else was I going to do on three hours sleep with the story of the decade all up in my face?

A small boy, almost jittering with excitement, explained how the bad men had tried to take his daddy, who now held him on his lap. He had prayed for Allah to send help, and a man of iron, in red and gold armor, had come from the sky. The Sword of the Prophet, the child said, had fought off the bad men and put an end to their fear. Full of pride, the father even added that his brave son had approached the arm of divine justice and pointed out a concealed fighter.

The reporter noted that to a person, everyone he had interviewed agreed their rescuer had taken great pains to protect civilians, and had left enough weapons for them to defend themselves. That was an especially intriguing note that rang a bell somewhere in the back of my head, and I filed it away for future reference.

My attention was suddenly drawn to the TV screen, where a voice by now very familiar to me sounded. In full dress uniform, Rhodey was speaking to media outside Edwards AFB. “An unfortunate training exercise involving an F-22 Raptor occurred earlier this morning. I'm pleased to report that the pilot was not injured. As for the unexpected turn of events on the ground in Gulmira, it is still unclear who or what intervened, but I can assure you that the U.S. government was not involved.“

Again, I thought about sending my photos to Rhodey. He was more likely to demand an explanation as to how I knew the details of the bogey dogfight, though, since he was putting out a cover story; and I still had no desire to end up in anybody’s brig. They wouldn’t matter to him anyway, if he already knew what I suspected: that that figure was Tony’s creation. 

My phone rang just then. It was Pepper. “Chris, I need your help. Tony thinks someone inside Stark Industries is dealing arms under the table. He wants me to go into the mainframe computer and download all the recent shipping manifests. If somebody walks in I’ll never be able to keep a straight face! Will you stay on the phone with me? Just help me stay calm?”

“Of course. Where do you have to go?”

“Just into Tony’s office. He gave me a lock chip and directions to access what I need.” 

“Great. It should be easy then. How, um, did Tony find this out?”

“I don’t know, but he’s determined to find out who’s behind it and stop it.” I swore at myself. If I hadn’t confronted Tony, hurled accusations—even if they seemed legit at the time—and given him those pictures, my friend might not be trying to track down some potentially dangerous rogue. I said reassuring things while she fumbled around, inserting the device Tony had given her to bypass all passwords and firewalls. “Okay, I’m into Obadiah’s system now…downloading…holy crap, look at all these bills of sale, and not one of them is for any branch of the military. I’d bet my last dime these are all shell companies to cover illegal sales. What are you up to, Obie?” 

“You think it’s Stane?”

“Looks like it. The screen here is a duplicate of his now, and all this documentation is coming straight from his virtual drive…huh, what’s this?”

“Good Lord, gal, saying things like ‘what’s this’ can get you into real trouble.” No reply. “Pepper?”

“Oh my _God_.” Her voice was small and horrified. “It’s a video of Tony, and the men who took him. He looks…he’s all bloody, and tied to a chair and God he looks so  scared…and they’re saying—I can’t understand it; translate!--Obadiah paid them to k-kill him but he didn’t pay enough—”

Pepper’s voice was rising into hysteria. “Pepper!” I tried to put a snap of authority into my tone. “Calm down. Get everything downloaded and get out of there. Tony’s counting on you. Hold on!” Which is what I was trying to do too. My hunch about Stane had been far more horribly right than I knew, apparently.

“I’m trying—” I heard a muffled voice, then a bump and a small ouch. “Oh, hello Obie.”

_Fuck fuck fuck. Dear Lord, get her out of there okay!_ “It’s all right, Pep,” I said urgently over the sounds of speaking off the line. “Stay cool. You have every right to be where you are, okay? Stay on the line, I’m not leaving you. Let’s hope this trick works on him twice.”

“Sure!” she said brightly into the phone. “I’ll be finished here in just a minute. Where do you want to meet? –oh, sorry, Obie, No, I’m meeting a friend.” More inaudible conversation ensued. 

I kept talking. “I wish I had a landline. It’d be in my other hand ready to call 911. Better still, I wish I had Tony’s phone number. Maybe I should get that from you when I see you. Although I don’t guess he’d want somebody he barely knows to have it. You might ask him sometime, though, for me, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course, you bet I will--Good night, Obie,” Pepper added. 

That was better! “I’m not leaving you until you’re in your car and out of there,” I continued. “Just like you did for me, hon.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Pepper chanted, half to herself, as if trying to cheer herself on. “You know you can’t print any of this, right, Chris?”

“You can’t see it through the phone, but I’m giving you the finger right now for saying something that stupid. Keep talking though, it’s okay.”

Her laugh was breathless with an edge of residual hysteria. “Did Obie see you at the gala? Because he thinks you’re fooling around with Tony. He said it looked like Tony was up to his old tricks and seemed to have quite an eye for my little reporter friend.” I snorted. “What did you mean when you said you hoped this trick worked on him twice?” I stammered until suddenly there was another muted male voice and Pepper let out a small yelp. “Chris! There’s a federal agent here. I’ve talked to him before. I’m telling him everything and then I’m taking this to Tony.”

“Oh, thank God! Yeah, let him take this.” I got off the phone and shuddered, followed by a sigh of relief. Pepper would give the Feds her evidence and they would arrest Stane. I’d come clean about his advances, and all would be well.

I should have known things are rarely that simple.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chrissy goes out to investigate a bizarre report. With the help of an intrepid group of teenagers, she gathers more evidence, and finally fits the pieces together to deduce the identity of the mysterious man of iron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cookies for those who discern the origins of the little Scooby Gang who appear in this chapter! :D

I wandered around my apartment for a while, trying to calm down enough to go to bed. Knowing what I knew now about Stane, I was blessed I had gotten out of his office with my skin. Worse yet, Pepper had faced him down while downloading the evidence and delivered it to a Federal agent (who had to be a literal-ass angel sent express from heaven, otherwise why did he show up at exactly the time needed?). To top it all, she had to give Tony this news. I didn’t envy her that. In fact, I concluded she was far more badass than I would ever be. 

Me, I shuddered at the thought of the apology I was going to have to make to Tony, assuming I ever got the chance. After the stunt I pulled at the gala, it wouldn’t surprise me if he took out a restraining order on me.

With sleep no closer, I decided to drive around my neighborhood and listen to the police scanner. The static and the laconic voices of cops dealing with small-time crime could actually relax me enough to get to bed, sometimes. I pulled on sweatpants and tossed on a hoodie, stuffed my feet into the old sneakers I keep by the door and raked my hair back into a ponytail. What burst from the tinny speaker was anything but relaxing. Stunned, I listened to first responders yelling about cars being hurled by what? Giant robots? and unidentified flying objects, capped by a massive explosion centered on—

Stark Industries. I gunned my motor and raced that way.

Blue lights split the pitch-black night on the Howard Stark Memorial Parkway; it looked like all the power in the area was out. The road was closed at the exit to SI. I ran up to the nearest cop with my ID out and asked what was going on. He shrugged. “Something blew up at the Stark lab. Some kind of experimental robot, I think somebody said.” I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the night air. That was ridiculous, though; Pepper had implied Tony was at home and she was going there too, so neither of them should have been in harm’s way. 

“What about the reports of cars being hurled through the air, and unidentified aerial beings?”

The harried cop scowled. I backed off, perched on my bumper and dialed Pepper’s number. No answer: not unexpected, considering it was the middle of the damn night, but still, I couldn’t help but be concerned about my friend, and her crush too. I left a quick message. Uncertain what to do next, I noticed a knot of teenagers gathered around an SUV, pulled into the dirt off the shoulder up ahead. I navigated toward them in the flicker of the flashing police lights, and noted they were all staring at something and exclaiming in excitement. 

“What’s up?” I inquired. The whole group jumped. A petite redheaded girl grabbed whatever they had been looking at and backed away with it behind her, sheltered by a skinny dark-haired boy. Of course, to get to them I would’ve had to get through the two boys that blocked me first, one a big football-player type, the other small but with a fierce glare that belied his size and said FIGHT ME. “Whoa, whoa!” I raised my hands in placation. “It’s cool. I’m a reporter, and I thought you might have seen something. The po-po,” I jerked a thumb toward the police, “won’t tell me anything, of course.” They didn’t move, so I went one step farther. “A friend of mine works at Stark Industries. I think she’s okay but I just want to know what happened!”

In response, the kids seemed to relax. The taller blond youth cocked his head in the direction of the two behind him. “Letta’s sister and some other kids were out here the other night and swore they saw a UFO,” he explained in a broad accent—British? No, Australian, I thought. “Bobby’s old man works in movies, so he borrowed some video gear and we thought we’d see if we could get anything.”

“Did you?” I asked.

“Damn right we did. Better than any dumb fuckin’ flying saucer,” the dark-haired boy opined. ”Check it out. Do we get credit if you use it?”

The smaller blond boy led out an audible groan. “Dude, need we remind you that you’re supposed to be grounded? You’re not even supposed to be out of your house. Are you that big an attention whore?”

Ignoring the shoving match that ensued, the girl revealed a small camcorder and held it out for me to see the tiny screen. “C-1 here is taller than any two of us put together, so he got a really good angle,” she told me with a nod toward the Aussie, who joined us.

“C-1?” I frowned.

“Two Chrises in our squad,” Letta explained. “That one,” she rolled her eyes toward the scuffle in the background, “is C-2 because of his temper. We learned in history class that C-2 was a World War 2-era plastic explosive.”

“Thank you, Hermione!” yelled Bobby in between hurling insults at his friend.

Letta started the playback. An armored form, huge and dull grey, moved ponderously across the screen. “That thing was fuckin’ gigantor,” Bobby supplied helpfully, he and C-2 having abandoned their tussle to watch over our shoulders. “Watch when it—yeah, there, oh fuck yeah, see?” Its size was obvious when it picked up an automobile and slung it around like a toy.

A second figure shot into the picture and back out. The frame moved as though C-1 was trying to follow it. Focus wavered in and out, and a tiny, razor-sharp image appeared. I dropped my ID and my hand flew to my mouth to smother a gasp. The kids turned as one to look at me, but I could not tear my eyes from the shape in gold and red. 

The giant hurled the car. Faint screams could be heard, before, unbelievably, the vehicle was caught by its opponent and eased to the road with an effort. The battle that ensued, the part captured by the young explorers at least, was epic. The massive grey form pulled trees and telephone poles up by the roots to throw, but the smaller figure was too fast as it darted through the air and fired explosive bursts. “That other one looks little but it’s human size, judging from what we saw,” Letta said.

“Yeah…yeah, it is. I’ve seen it.” The kids’ eyes bugged out. “Over the ocean one night, a couple of weeks ago.”

“What in bloody hell is it?” C-1 demanded. 

I shook my head, unwilling to put these gutsy youngsters further at risk. “I don’t know, but one thing I do know is, you kids need to keep your heads down, stay out of the mix, and please don’t put that film up on youtube. I, uh, got a tip on this from a government informant.” It wasn’t really a lie, given Pepper’s words about her Fed acquaintance. Man, I didn’t think eyes could get any bigger. Clearly I was mistaken. “That means the government is likely involved, or at least interested, and you don’t want them interested in you. Am I right?” Heads bobbed in unison. “Is this all that happened?”

“No, they moved off toward the Stark labs, and we couldn’t see from here,” Letta said. “We started to move closer, but there was this huge explosion, and we didn’t see either one after that.”

I suppressed a shudder. “Thank you for trusting me with this,” I told the four. “Please stay cool and don’t talk about this. If my publishers can use this footage, we can find you. I suspect this one,” I glared at C-2, “scorches the earth around his feet, and you can probably hear that one,” I turned my gaze on Bobby, “cuss from two miles off.” Undeterred, the latter threw his arms out and made a dramatic bow. The effect was spoiled a bit when C-1 slapped him back with one big arm. “Now get out of here and get home before the police come investigating.”

They scrambled back into their ride and I walked back to mine with my head spinning. I sat down behind the wheel with the door open to think. One of the combatants in the clash the police were denying happened was obviously the one I had been following for days now, the ‘man of iron’ who had come to Gulmira’s aid. My sighting over the cliffs, ending with the apparent landing, had tipped me to a direct link between the armored figure and Tony Stark. Even without that, though, the connection was evident. 

I hadn’t shown the Gulmira photos to anyone except Tony. Pepper had said that he was determined to find out who was dealing arms illegally and stop them. The appearance of a figure in red and gold armor in Afghanistan only hours after I confronted Tony at the gala could not be a coincidence. I don’t believe in coincidence, anyhow.

So, my working theory was that Tony had built this robot, or self-propelling armored suit, or what the heck ever it was, and, what? Sent somebody out in it? Who? An SI employee? A test pilot of some sort? I turned it over in my mind. 

In all the appearances I had encountered, the MO was similar. In the conflict tonight, the grey colossus had used hapless citizens as shields and weapons, while red and gold had saved them; similarly, the residents of the Afghan village had been protected and left with enough armament to defend themselves. Even in the dogfight I’d overheard, which I now guessed to have occurred while red and gold was returning from Gulmira, the pilots attacking it had not been fired on in return, even in self-defense, and the one pilot in danger had been rescued by his target—

_Oh fuck._

_Tonight, he protected civilians. In Gulmira, he sheltered the villagers. In the air, he even bailed out airmen who were just doing their jobs._

_Rhodey said Tony would let terrorists blow him up before he would willingly put other people in danger. No, he wouldn’t build that and then put somebody else in it to take the heat. And he wouldn’t let others be hurt because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time._

The dots connected, and the picture they revealed stole my breath.

Was Tony Stark himself the man of iron?

My disbelief could not overcome the simple hard facts. In the next instant, though, one more hard fact popped into my mind that left me dazed with horror. The kids filming had lost sight of both opponents after a mammoth explosion. 

If Tony had been there, in that suit, was he even still alive?


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At a press conference that will go down in history, Chrissy gets some of the answers she seeks.

I tried once more to call Pepper, with no more luck. Was that good, or bad? Was she home snug in her bed asleep, or at some morgue identifying whatever was left of the boss she secretly loved? 

One thing was for sure, I was getting no sleep that night. After I tried some more connections to get any legit info at all, all of which ran into brick walls, I had to give up. I went home, drank tea, banged around the internet, played TV-remote roulette, prayed with every breath, and strove not to think about what the morning light might bring.

What it brought was a text about a 9 AM presser at SI, being conducted by Colonel James Rhodes, and Tony Stark, CEO of Stark Industries. I was never so glad to have to cover an early morning event in my life. Quickly I got ready: grey skirt suit, pale pink blouse, dark pumps, the silver necklace my granny gave me before I left for college. I looked myself over in the mirror, in my uniform and ready to do battle again.

As I drove to Stark Industries, I wondered how much battle I would be doing. The police had refused to even acknowledge the combat of the previous night took place. Would federal authorities also cover it up? Probably so, I reasoned. That meant Rhodey would make another of those say-nothing statements, and Tony would be obliged to do the same. 

While I parked and made my way back to the Speakers’ Center, I pondered what to do. I could hammer at him, try to dent the cover story and spill the facts I knew were there, but it might do nothing but get me into a major bind, since I wasn’t supposed to know those facts. Besides, I did not want the Feds redoubling their efforts to quiet any witnesses, and maybe stumbling across the little Scooby Gang I had met and their inconvenient video.

On the other hand, If I asked questions and challenged Tony in the right way, maybe I could keep other reporters from getting into the game, and even help him take the conversation whichever way he wanted it to go. Yes, I’m a journalist. Yes, it’s my job and duty to make people aware of what they need to know; but there’s a time to speak, and a time to be silent. Honestly, I couldn’t blame him if he wanted to keep this under wraps, and if I could set up a straw man argument he could knock down in public to strengthen his position, I was inclined to help. 

This time the room had been set up in advance with rows of chairs. My favorite spot, on an aisle toward the front, was open, and I settled there and snagged one of the morning papers being passed around the room. WHO IS IRON MAN? screamed the LA Times’ headline. I chuckled to myself, knowing I’d have an Ozzy earworm for the rest of the day.

The room was full of chatter. One guy heard that Iron Man was Tony’s bodyguard, another that it was a top-secret robot soldier Tony had designed for the military, that went wild. Nobody seemed to know anything about the giant grey armor. Somebody wondered why Tony was making the public statement when Obadiah Stane had been out front for SI, and a woman sitting nearby piped up that she had been told he had left on an extended vacation the night before. I suddenly got a very bad feeling, and kept my mouth shut. 

A woman in military dress started handing out documents. They were copies of a short statement, pretty much what I had expected. There were unconfirmed reports that a robotic prototype had malfunctioned and caused damage to the arc reactor, the big experimental device that powered the SI complex. Fortunately, the statement went on, a member of Tony Stark’s personal security staff was able to neutralize the situation utilizing classified technology. The reactor breach was being investigated. _Personal security staff?_ I thought. _Oh for cryin’ out loud, they are not seriously going with the bodyguard story, are they?_

A few minutes later, Rhodey walked out, looking every inch the polished, professional soldier. “You've all received the official statement of what occurred at Stark Industries last night. We’re happy to report that although some disruption to area traffic and power occurred, no civilians were injured, and nearly all the power has been restored. Regarding the specifics of the events that transpired, I would urge all of you not to jump to conclusions and to wait for the facts as they unfold.

“And now Mr. Stark has prepared a statement. He will not be taking any questions. Thank you,” Rhodey finished. He glanced down at me with a small smile as if to say ‘what can you do’. I smiled back, and then felt a rush of tension leave my body as Tony strode in, very much alive and intact. He looked as confident as ever as he took his friend’s place at the podium.

“It's been a while since I was in front of you, I figure I'll stick to the cards this time,” he began with a jaunty half-grin. “There's been speculation that I was involved in the events that occurred on the freeway and the rooftop—"

Yeah, Rhodey said ‘no questions’, but I really was in no mood to follow directions today. “I'm sorry, Mr. Stark,” I interrupted, “but do you honestly expect us to believe that that was a bodyguard in a suit that conveniently appeared, despite the fact that—"

Tony cut me off. Hey, turnabout was fair play. “I know that it's confusing. It is one thing to question the official story, and another thing entirely to make wild accusations, or insinuate that I'm some kind of superhero.” 

“Well, now, I never said you were a superhero,” I retorted.

That finally stopped him. He cocked an eyebrow at me. “Didn’t?”

“Mmm-mmm,” I shook my head. He seemed a bit thrown, like he wasn’t sure what I was doing. I sat still, and quiet, and just looked at him. _Bodyguard, my ass,_ I thought. _Not when you supposedly haven’t been within miles of any reported sighting. Unless you were right there guarding your own body._

“Well…good, because that would be outlandish and, uh, fantastic. I'm just not the hero type. Clearly.” Bullshit. I didn’t know what all happened to him in Afghanistan, but I didn’t have to. Anyone in the hands of terrorists, on their home turf, for all those months, who survived and made it out alive counted as a hero in my book. And if my intuition was right, if he actually went back in there of his own free will, to right wrongs done in his name and help the people who couldn’t leave, then Tony Stark was a hero on orders of magnitude higher. “With this laundry list of character defects, all the mistakes I've made, largely public...” 

Rhodey leaned in and said something quietly to him. it might have been ‘stick to the cards, man.’ Tony nodded and held up a small sheaf of note cards, but did not continue. Instead, he just looked out at the assembled media, at the cameras I heard humming and clicking behind me in the sudden silence. He scanned the entire room for a long few seconds, until finally our eyes met again. I inclined my head the least little bit, and wished I could say out loud, _Do what you’ve got to do, Tony, and I’ll help all I can._

He put the cards down. “The truth is…I am Iron Man.”

The room erupted. Everybody hit their feet. Everybody except me, that is. I just sat there in shock, thinking I KNEW IT, DAMN YOU, STARK. As questions started to fly, Tony looked straight at me, and his lips curled in a tiny half-smirk. It took everything in me not to burst out laughing in spite of the gravity of the situation. Leave it to him to do the last thing anybody would expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT NOTICE--this is NOT the end of the story! There's one more chapter after this one. I know since this is where IM1 ends, one might reasonably expect this story to end here also. WRONG. Chrissy got some of her questions answered, but not all; and somebody else has some questions for her that he wants answers to. hehe


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chrissy and Tony finally talk, and Tony makes her an offer she can't refuse. lol

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more bit of borrowing to cop to here: when Chrissy asks Tony why he revealed himself as Iron Man, part of his reply is inspired by the final scene of the movie novelization by the excellent Peter David, specifically the thoughts going through Tony's head in the instant before he speaks those immortal words. It's a gorgeous passage and I couldn't have said it any better. :)

The chaos that the press conference devolved into ended, eventually, and my fellow reporters were herded out. Tony’s confession had left Rhodey looking like he was about to have a stroke. I suspected he was in a back room somewhere dishing out a good old Army butt-chewing to his buddy. And poor Pepper, her life was never going to be the same now!

I looked around and found the room almost empty. Slowly I stood and pulled my phone out so I could text her when I got to the car, something like ‘well your boy rly did it this time LOL’. To my surprise, though, a ‘pssst’ caught my ear as I turned to leave. I looked over my shoulder. Tony stood in the half-open door leading out of the room from the front. He jerked his head in a come-here gesture. I approached with caution, and curiosity. “Was that directed at me, Mr. Stark?”

“You knew.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Cut the bullshit, cornbread.”

“Oh, so you do remember my name, roughly.”

He laughed. “I may pretend to forget people’s names sometimes. Found out, back in college, that it throws people off their game, makes it easier to escape uncomfortable situations. And if you will recall, that night at the gala, you were a walking, talking uncomfortable situation. What I wanna know is, how? How did you figure it out?”

So, I told him. I told him everything, including but not limited to the military radio hack, my beachfront sighting, the Scooby Gang (no names though) and how the pieces came together. He was suitably impressed. “I saw the car on the cliffs that night, and a woman,” he said. “I just didn’t put a name with the face. Kinda hard when you’re flying at that rate of speed.”

“The suit’s—it’s beautiful,” I told him. “I wasn’t trying to back you into a corner in here, earlier. If you wanted to keep it a secret, or had been ordered to, that was understandable. I was hoping if I gave you something to push back against, it’d be easier for you to direct the narrative where you needed it to go.” He gave a slow nod of comprehension. “But you came out. I saw the statement; the Feds wanted you to go along with that, didn’t they? To lie and say you had nothing to do with ‘Iron Man’. But you didn’t. Why?”

Tony lowered his head for a moment, then gazed around the now empty room. “I looked out at the reporters here, really looked at them, and I thought about how lies had brought us to this, brought _me_ to this. How the world is running on fear. I’ve been making my living off that, feeding the fear of others, of death, of the unknown. There has to be an end to that, to the fear and secrecy, or else this wreck of a world is going to be the best we’ve got, and it’s only going to get worse…” He trailed off, and got that haunted look again, the look I had seen the morning he came home from Afghanistan. I wondered what he was thinking of: perhaps the soldiers who had died trying to protect him, or the civilians hurt by weapons he had built. “And the honesty, the changing of unknown into known—it’s got to start someplace.” He turned back toward me, and those intense eyes fixed on me as if pleading for me to understand. “And I just thought, _Hell, might as well start with me.”_

I held his gaze and smiled. “Makes sense to me. I appreciate your candor.” Up this close, I could see scratches and scrapes all over his face, covered with pancake makeup for the TV cameras. I wondered how far the honesty could go, what I could ask that he would or could answer.

Before I could try, though, Tony said, “Okay! So, clearly you are all right with that honesty thing as a two-way street.” I frowned and nodded. “Then, what was up with you and Obie at the gala?”

 _Oh. Well, damn._ I hesitated. For all Stane had done, he had been Tony’s mentor and friend. As I waffled, he stepped closer and his voice dropped. “I was there, Christine. You were terrified. What did he do?”

Something in his face told me the truth was not going to hurt him. “I interviewed him for my magazine, the night I saw you flying. He, uh, behaved inappropriately. Nothing happened!” I hastened to add when that look of rage started to creep into his eyes and turn them dark. “He just hit on me, and got mad when I turned him down. I went in with an exit strategy in place, though. Pepper called and stayed on the phone until I left. She still doesn’t know it was him I was meeting with, though, so please don’t tell her? Not now anyway.”

“Ohhh, blackmail material. Excellent.” He rubbed his hands together with frank glee.

“If you want me getting beat half to death by my friend’s high heel shoe on your conscience, then yeah, laugh it up, hot rod.”

He snickered, then sobered. “It’s amazing how you can know somebody for so long and never know them at all, you know? Those weapons in Gulmira, the ones you accused me of selling? It was Obie. He’d been dealing under the table for years.”

“I know. I was on the phone with Pepper yesterday, paying that favor back, when she got the documents for you.” While he was absorbing that I went on in a rush to get it all out, “She found proof he paid the Ten Rings to—to kill you, too. I thought he knew more than he was saying, but that--that…my God.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I already knew.”

“Is he really on vacation?” 

Tony just looked at me, and I knew. “The arms dealing will be made public later,” was all he said.

“And the rest? Never mind, that’s none of my business. You’ll do what’s best for you, and that’s as it should be. I—Tony, I need for you to know how sorry I am about the way I behaved at the gala. I jumped to conclusions, unjustified, and I assumed the worst of you—”

“Not the first time that’s happened. Won’t be the last, I’m sure.”

“No, now hush, let me say my piece, don’t blow me off. Do you hold grudges that tightly, or have you never had anybody ask your forgiveness and mean it?”

That made him pause. “Usually I'm the one needing to ask for forgiveness,” he finally said, more quietly. “I don’t have much practice with the reverse.”

“It's high time you got some practice, then. While we’re at it, I’ll probably have to apologize for this too but…when did you find out Stane was behind your kidnapping?”

Tony’s reply was matter-of-fact, and nearly dropped me. “Last night, when he came to my house and tried to kill me.” Over my sputters, he went on, “He was going to kill Pepper, too. Threatened you, even.”

“Me?” I finally got out.

“’Your little reporter friend’ was what he actually said, and since I’ve never been known for befriending the media, that kind of rules out everybody except you.”

“Little reporter friend? Eh, I’ve been called worse.” We laughed together this time. “It’s got to be hard for you though, finding out the man you respected not only sold terrorists weapons, but essentially sold them you.”

Tony shrugged. “Guess he figured I was more useful to him dead than alive.” I winced. “Enough about that. I have a proposal for you. Or a proposition. No, that’s not right either. I have these issues with word choice sometimes, and it invariably gets me in trouble.” Even though I knew he was trying to distract me from the more painful topics we had been grazing, it was next to impossible not to fall for it, because he’s just that damn good at misdirection. He would have been a great illusionist. “I,” he continued, “have been catching up on your body of work, Ms Everhart. Your writeup of the interview we did in Vegas was impressive. And the article you wrote while I was, um, out of the country? Savage. Pepper didn’t want to tell me, but there were rumors that I faked it? Damn, I wish.”

“That’s exactly what Happy said.”

His smile softened for a moment in evident fondness. “Yeah. It was…interesting, to read what people thought about me when they didn’t know if I was ever coming back.” I bit my lip and nodded. “Which reminds me! Somewhere along the way, you’re going to have to explain to me how you managed to brainwash my personal assistant into thinking you were her bestie.”

“Girl talk and home cooking go a long way.”

“Home cooking?” He perked up even more. “Maybe I’ll have to renegotiate that proposal.”

“You haven’t even made a proposal yet.”

“Oops, you know, you’re right. Okay then, here’s the deal. You’ve brainwashed my PA, and my driver, and even my best friend, who’s supposed to be impervious to that mumbo-jumbo because military. They all think you’re pretty good at what you do. And I read your work, and you _are_ pretty good. You’re a wordsmith. You build things out of words, the way I build things out of circuitry and metal. 

“Between Stark Industries’ new direction, and the enormous additional can of worms I opened this morning, I’m going to have to do a little public relations work. A high-profile magazine, cover story interview, with a highly skilled writer who’s already gotten identified with my brand, might do the trick. If only I could find such a highly skilled writer, someone I’m pretty sure isn’t going to stab me in the back, that would be a good person to have on my side.”

“It certainly would,” I agreed. “I am a journalist, and objectivity is my life. But I promise you, Tony, anything I have to say, I will say to your face. I will never stab you in the back, and as much as it lies in my power to do so, I won’t let anybody else do it either.”

He grinned, and we shook on it.

The next issue of Vanity Fair had my third cover credit. The title came from something Tony had said to me in the interview. I liked it; I could relate to it. As I said, I don’t believe in coincidences.

_'I Shouldn't Be Alive Unless It Was For A Reason: Tony Stark Is Iron Man, by Christine Everhart’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we are at the end of part 1 of the Wordsmith saga! Thank you all so much for reading and commenting.
> 
> Chrissy's adventures continue in chapter 1 of Never in the Past Tense, which covers the time frame of Iron Man 2.


End file.
